I sit here, in this chair, like so many years ago...and I am wandering without compass. I read the braille of a loom, knowing the pattern but blind to the threads. It is caked brown and spins red, smell metallic.

The last prospect is gone.

The cross maiden remained in sepia, a crucifixion cast in marble. I only imagined it moved, all the more muddled by gilded brocade memory. But tonight, after a day of light-hearted wonder, it should come to no surprise. I took things slowly, too slowly. Erin and whomever she's been talking with most of the night are still at Drew's place, still likely sitting close. And in walking with them to that place, and before, and after--when I left--I just knew. I was all too considerate and afraid.

Never did get down the part about being aggressive about people. I figured take it slow. I figured give some space, don't always take every opportunity to talk with her. I figured leave her guessing a little. I thought--wrong.

The last leaf falls from my autumn hopes.

The thread-like web of black mesh curves against my spine and thighs, around my throat, eyes, covering everything but my lips. I wear a coat, boots, and the flush of midnight relevation in gestures. I stalk the night and areas undiscovered.

I am guardian and messenger. I am alone in a nowhere somewhere.

The one thing that came to mean so much can now be abandoned. The consuming desire to be with someone can be unfed. And like so much of life, the curtain may be cast down, the harsh light drawn shut.

The ignoble pain can stop. I can forget again.

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