He came from a curve, a trajectory impossible to anticipate. There was nothing flimsy or fast about him, though, and he held decades of gone-by at his sides as easily as waxen Icari. One suspected that his appearance was a returning and a leaving, the space inside of a doorway. All there was to anchor him was to love him, but that’s a lie, because as the days stack he rises higher and higher and moves everything as he moves past everything.
There’s a modest fear of heights inside of loving him. There’s a forgetfulness, too. Of ending or falling. No one knows, and no one cares. Or rather, one knows to care less, to invert the sky and send the sun sinking into the sea, to collapse the line of so-called safety and darken his face in the mirror of the moon.
Less lit is less split. The day makes many of him, reflects and parses the things of him and it’s hard for him to take care of himselves. Inking the reflections and moonlight-less…succor. And he goes higher, farther and further, but one has to shut the eyes. Out there, where he is, love glimmers. So love him dimly, cup the ember, follow the curve.