Sunday 7/15/2018 11:06:00 PM

talk to the grey. argue with the yellow. all the colors have their voices. all the moments have their architects. in the sober of when. in the high of maybe. we run our razors over tomorrow's skin and wait for the vein to open.

it's just a bridge. a way over the terminal abyss. it's just a path. a route from the beginning to the end. as if such markers can indicate where we are.

tell the rain it need not fall. gravity will gladly compensate. tell the sun it need not rise. one day is more than enough.

there is no epiphany in the caliber of our flesh. the light flickers. we awaken. to the tremors of our expectation. petals on the flower. succumbing to the wind. raindrops on the glass. selling the storm in discarded wishes.

like dominoes, the years tumble. inertia is all we have as the distance between us deepens.

we're just cardboard limbs and paper hearts.

when the rain decides to fall.

we're helpless. 

7/08/2018 11:22:00 PM

small storms echo. louder than they should. weak bridges fuss with the wind. time presses. thumb and hatchet. paper and blood. time is a wolf. flesh is a dove.

the angles wear us. obtuse and adamant. making us that much smaller in the wake of our expectation.

the oblique lines penetrate our distance. fumbling toward delusions of happiness. spilling into our corners. embracing all our diseases.

the math ticking in our minds. as the miles crumble under our footsteps. no matter how far. regardless of the distance. we're always close to the edge. we're always driven by the abyss.

there is strength in hunger. there are shackles in freedom. life is a metaphor of choices. a narrative of complications.

the hours overcome. too far. no closer.

we paint the walls. in the colors of our want. we wear the darkness. in the fever of our progress. choice is a war. certainty a weapon. gravity solves us. as the kite string burns our skin.

Wednesday 7/04/2018 11:31:00 PM

the sun doesn't understand mercy. the wind hasn't any caution. the moment bites down. the choice is to struggle or to suffocate.

the chase takes us further. away from ourselves. the body, a relentless piston in an engine that's breaking down.

too fast. too slow. there is no measure to this race. too hot. too cold. there is no weather. only heat.

the smallest colors burst open. the littlest lies feast on our pain.

we continue. our staircases thoroughly climbed. our tails amply chased. scratching at the matchsticks that wouldn't ignite.

Sunday 7/01/2018 11:11:00 PM

Too far it seemed. Until it wasn't. The slope of distance in the creases of my gaze. As the pavement melted under my feet. Life relenting to my pace.

the cripple of expectation gone. the simmer of want evaporating. nothing but the road to focus on.

little dolls in their stubborn dresses. counting the colors as they disappear.

Too loud. The sound of waiting. For things to change.

there was no itinerary. no destination. just the searching for somewhere to go. our voices razorblades. all our  words cut to pieces.

the euphoria of flesh. all buckles and zippers chaffing open. the hysteria of skin too swift. a furious sprint. when so many miles still lie ahead.

Friday 6/22/2018 10:45:00 PM

the ritual becomes us. fiber and muscle solving its equations. the stutter of how. as the bridge approaches. time's thieves incredulous. as our choices dissipate.

it's loud. the thunder of footsteps. as we gain momentum. spilling ourselves into the future's empty glass.

flesh only angles. bones only edge. as we choke on the hurricane of surrender. headless dolls in limp dresses. scavenging for words barely spent.

we're not there. nor do we want to be. it's the approach. the journey that moves us.

scabs on the soles of our feet. gashes on the backs of our thighs. all the brutal measurements of struggle that indicate we're alive.

we're runners. with nowhere to go. we're screaming, but no words come out.

the end came and went. there was no need to say it was over.

Sunday 6/17/2018 11:01:00 PM

the where changes. the why slouches onward. a half deflated balloon scraping the horizon. the distance fluctuates. the terminal sober of humanity.

the destinations rarely know us. though we've been before. as strangers. as drifting choices in an ocean of maybes. as motes of defiance in time's bottomless pit.

we go wildly. muted breath. heavy gait. absorbed by the fury of our struggle. a relentless piston in the engine of our discontent.

the grief is gone. the pain is spent. and we find ourselves richer for it. there is nothing left to want. or need.

only a thrist for more miles that cannot be quenched.

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