Pleasure to Ruin

Before opening the gate, there's a pause. You hear the silence of mountains folded in the sound of car-engine. The moon traps itself in your windshield, deforms its geometry in a tangle of shadows. You're trying to remember the tail-end of whispers, clinging on the curve of lips. Soon, you deface the idea of loss, its hyperbolic sentimental affectations. And you think you understand this, the pleasure to ruin. It's a kind of freedom, flight forceful as wings. The absence of adjustments is air, reduction of the need for something logical. Later, the smell of coffee blankets your patio, tempts the night to rest in the hush of leaves falling in their movement.