The moon is waxing and I’ve not yet found the skeleton keys to the universe. I am fleshless, and only you can see me – dancing on the pavement that would become your grave if a safe fell from the skyscraper above, or you had been in front of the bus that passed.
Sometimes, in a crowd – tapping your shoulder and not being there when you turn. Pressed up like thin paper in the walls, unpeeling to the bone. Maybe I’m changing tyres – and you’re the spare. I can show you where the light is by casting shadows like confetti at a wedding. Gently measuring out the music of the spheres, spinning like a clock to mark your time.
Flesh is soft, and slips like putty to reveal a frame so sharp it punctures the sky to let out the air as we breathe in the stars.
And then there’s dust – which I am becoming.
Another reload. Nearly all up again. New work at the lab now.