My accusers are the silence, the emptiness. We are no good without words. There have been so many words between us. You say that the street at night has ruby eyes. I ask you if all streets have ruby eyes and you say no just the street outside our door. You say that outside our door is a world beyond all knowing. You spread your naked wings and the ground slips away. It has been more than two hours since you last felt so alone. There is a misfortune that lurks behind you. And then we were down to New Jersey with the bomb squad. You had one small tear from each eye. It was all so three dimensional as the world becomes unstuck. Another fix of motel love, this we said was for the martyrs. Your symptoms get louder as your thoughts jumble up together to the point where you are numb and feel nothing. I watch as the dragon slide out from between your legs and begin to devour. We dive like invaders, a thin slice, you transformed, like an interior sphere. Once this was a Christ like heart inside of you as open as a page of octaves with all of their whirling fragments so determined to be like a god of this day and age with all of the unreasoning snippets. This was the immortality that we had built. You had nothing to show for it. All dry bone and lamenting eyes with lips that traced back to the beginnings of time. You touch me with the fingers of triumph. Yes, touch me again and again. The paintings of life pushed aside to make room. The hardened black sediments of your heart as a sign of temptations past as you fill your nostrils with regret. It was all about what you didn’t do that left you unkempt. A slithering something that rose and swelled in a tempest of sympathy and exaltation as you spoke of the backwardness of man and his bestial natures as if your heart was won or lost by such trifles of account. The little motor in your head whirling away, trying to be efficient.