Layers and layers

There are some days that reveal themselves as messed up as the thought of jotted down manuscripts--which can only describe these minutes as days or the faded back light as lexicon. Just as you can believe in something greater, I can find something under the sheets of, say, a lover, or behind the motives of a friend, or behind the legends of your inherited past.

Let this trickle in--let the days pass by and with felt renditions of your favorite songs fading by. Warbled. Genuine in their own sensations; an apt way to end a meal or to begin a slumber. The best ones when the midday grows cold, when there are blankets old as you laid criss-crossed, legs criss-crossed, unbeknownst who's skin is gripping who's.

Let these words become beautiful. Stay as they are. Don't let this forget who I am. What I am in this.