A short piece of semi-prose I found in my archives:
When the lemon-wedge of the sun had burnt a sullen ember—when our hearts took on stones and water—we could not have seen, you and I, just how devastating the dusk can be for two beasts without a light between them. We could not have known then—as we do now, for the old and wicked night has been to us a solemn teacher—the steep pitch of sleeplessness and indeterminate hours heaving alone together.
There is no warm and slick divide where we may hide awhile, balm and embrasure always the elusive corner, yes, always mere breaths from capture—still wholly free.
We are a fruit tree, you and I, precocious and past bloom, heavy with out weight and the birth pains of stolen creation. When did our boughs bow so low, drooping wrecked and sullen?
This, then, is the darkness whose dread passing blights the paints of many single portraits. This is the cleaving which knows no surcease. In the quiet grey hours of the morning, you will go, pondering a wall, determined as Lot to spare not a glance behind, thinking me a handful of salt in your wake. In the quiet grey hours of the morning, before coffee and drapes, before the distance swallows with permanence, before the bulb of sun returns in mute procession, I will run after you.