the leftovers of belief

i feel like i want to say something, but the words blazing to the tips of my fingers freeze in the cool night air. ideas come to me - in the shape of a mouth, in the form of a body, in the construction of fantasies and the breaking down to make something that is beautiful - and i'm struck by my unwillingness to control my feelings and my inability to articulate them.

i've seen this memory and i'm a little tired, i guess, of stumbling around in the dark, entertaining ghost lovers and listening to the creak of this ancient ceiling fan. i pass my days driving, moving like water, and at night, breaking like waves.

as difficult as it is to negotiate the space and time and silence, i'd like to believe that proximity won't negate the possibility and someday, we'll sit close, laughing or talking over one another or just enjoying the silence from inches - and not hours or miles - away.

there's a certain magic in the idea i can't quite let go of; a belief left over from another life, perhaps. maybe i'm wrong. maybe i'm not.

my vocabulary of faith remains.