Dusk filtering through thin panes of crystal.
Holding back the wind, with much rattling protest.
The light of the yawning sun paints the attic
faintly the color of a bit peach
or a lit oven.
Flecks of dancing dust mites and fuzzbunnies.
Only visible in the untouchable shafts of light.
Nothing to wrap your fingers around darling.
Only waltzing figments
they won't answer your questions.
Though they dance so serenely
with such calming wisdom.
Such infinite
silent
oblivious voyeurism.
Smells like childhood.
Dark hiding places.
Sneezing fits foiling our marathon games.
Of sunday afternoons
both clear saphire and muddy grey.
Feels like emptiness
as yet another
tiny, waltzing
blind, mute prophet
falls to my waiting fingertips.
To wait,
is the only way to capture the infinite.
Feels like emptiness.
Feels like emptiness,
Withering in my escaped youth.
Exhaled from my eager adolescence.
Stirring the innumerable,
uncapturable infinite.
Like so many wasted minutes.
Like so many missed oppurtunities.
