the most beautiful thing: game
It is sweet, the way you have me sitting just under your labels, just beside your meanders. Would that someone put it all together an
d know what the words all meant. It is a simple game of marco-polo, of yes, no, maybe, of yesterday and someday. It is simple. It is rich. It is lovely and beautiful, even. But it is still a game.
From one form to another, we shift and spin. Your heart in my hands, and I fear I may take a spill. There is so much ground to cover and so much will to nudge. The light in the hall shines through this crack in the door and the game becomes “can they see us or not”. The light falls across faces unendingly wet with the salty hope of tomorrows uncollected, the reaper unable to finish the job.
The Bower has shown himself to be a heart once again, the trump all lined up in a row like the Queen’s animated army, like the house of cards will not really fall. And still we play each hand for no other reason than to play the next hand. For no other reason?
I’ll give you a reason: the prize.
