Bright lights on Houston. Up, as always, far too late.
Counter-intuitive this, you and I, rationalist and artist.
Who would have known?
Dark skies over the house, waves loud out the window.
A kind of blissful isolation.
Perfect mornings, days even, in your arms, in your orbit.
If it is all a blaze of glory, then this was a glory differed. A sublimation of self.
A sense of stillness stemming from another.
And now not knowing you.
Not knowing you.
Red skies in the morning.
A sailor's warning.
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