Incense burns with a sharp glow, a fire trapped within the walls of its char, an awakening working its way down to what holds it in place, distilling grey ash into the curves of its boundaries.
It's strange. We can build shapes out of anything. Your hands taking shape into new autumn leaves, mine still struggling to shed the summers.
I am trying to make sense in ellipses of metaphors, you are draped in soft shadows of meteorites, kissing the hyperbole hung around your neck, praying for the variables to put you amongst the stars.
We're both trying to make sense of things that never belonged here,
We're both trying to build homes in places that do not belong to us
As we lay claim to cities, scribbling tactics on papyrus under fading light, the skies grew heavy with the sudden need to escape.
So we learn to adapt. We adapt to the burning and the freezing of far off moons and decaying graveyards
We adapt until we burn with a glow so sharp, they can see us miles across space.
When the seasons don't arrive, our bodies will shape placid winters.
When the seasons don't arrive, we will scavenge craters out of light and shape spring into existence.
The light will always be there,
unwinding itself out of barren planets and rocket fuel, trampled wildflowers and particle accelerators, just until it fills up the void and tears our footprints asunder.
Just until it lays claim to everything that it was robbed of.
-Tamarind Fall; Parabolas and meteorites.
