My own true North

How does luck descend? like two gold coins falling in a box, like a flock of starlings, dark filings swirling the sky, none of them coming to rest.
 We are not what we were when we commenced this journey. If I think of you now I see you crying in the silent film, and the two halves of my heart fly apart. The hackles of the moon are rising, illuminating the rotting brocade of the path before me.
The quest leads me down to the foundry of dreams. Is there some potion that will indemnify me against them? No. All that remains is the faintly accusatory mushroom scent of sperm on the air. I am living in the jilted realm of grief. Now I am naked, now I am cloaked in the red light of evening.
What will happen when the light goes out, when the day is already crossed with its own demise? Then I will whisper to you your own fish-name for who isn't driven to swim up the estuaries of another's body to spawn close to the soul?
I am coming back, lucky or luckless, my passion for you bit between my teeth like old coins. As the birds follow their magnetic maps to cross skies loaded with spent jet fuel to find their true North I am coming. Belive me. At last I am on my way.