it is but a wanting for a deep blue sea and, yet, it remains but stoic in its gray. i widen my grip on the board as if surfing its childish delights; water building to waves and cresting at once, the night tide taking me back to shore.
it is the shore which breathes so heavily, its harness all clipped to the moon and i, somehow uncertain of which one is pulling which.
but it is in the pulling which i tag along. the reach of the stars’ patterns lying.
in lying, they disguise themselves as shapes shifting; lines connecting dots or merely dots connected, the outlines weeping like cut-outs in a flip book whose edges have taken leave from the constant page turning in this infinite bedtime story, trudging along to its end.
but it is in the end which seems so wrongly stated. our sights being not but barely over a straight line – not a full circle at all – we cannot gaze upwards and downwards at the same time, cannot look both left and right at the same time, and cannot, for certain, begin to peer behind. so we loosen our hold on the cul-de-sac of the skies, for it spins ‘round.
it is in the spinning which pronounces such disgust with the stories of the skies, for it allows only an outward temptation culled inward, verily. we gather them silently and, silently, they are gathered; the shore in constant juxtaposition to the frigid seas, illustrating its own battle scenes and wanting only to form a separate story even as it is merely the hand reaching to be handed.
in handling itself, helpless, it cannot counteract either deep.
and so sunrise.
and so sunshine.
we sit back and relax.