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 grain 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.

6/10/2018 10:37:00 PM

what's the wind. if not a measure of our resistance. all the seldom castles lingering in the midday. heavy anchors on hungry vessels. the arrogant hunt of ego and skin. the consistent attrition of impossible choices.

what's the water below? what's the gravel underfoot? a puzzle for solving. a challenge to exceed our limits.

so many ways to run. away. toward. from.

the miles transpire. a pelting rain of distance. that tries to drown us, but never quite does.

the puddles lingering long after the weather has turned.

still, the horizon beckons.

always.

no matter how far we've come.

Tuesday 6/05/2018 11:18:00 PM

the distance taps us on the shoulder and says we're already there. the miles whisper in our ear that we never left.

the places have no names. they're only vague thunder echoing from a fading storm. transparent bridges over imagined depths.

we go softly into that roar. wearing every face like an alarm. letting the wind collapse the walls rather than opening the doors.

running out loud. running on the dents in our feet. high on the crisis. swift with rage. chasing a hunger that's impossible to feed.

selling our surrender for pennies on the dollar. building our bridges from deceit and skin.

Monday 5/28/2018 10:49:00 PM

the small is tremendous. as the ratios surge. in fits of corruption.

he said it hurt. and i believed him. despite the absence of blood.

we told our stories. like melting ice cream cones. disappearing into the rabid sun. everything much too alive. our sticky fists. our empty bellies. wearing the moment in so many fractions. choking on the fickle decimals in our flesh.

it ran too fast. then it was gone. and i was a place. not just a path. but i didn't know how to be that kind of stranger. so we lied and said it was over. 

a consortium of skin. each piece spent louder than the next. the hunger resolved. the distance infectious.

our voices paper. our bones cement. as we staggered between grief and expectation.

we pretended to know each other. and for a time the lie was enough.

Tuesday 5/22/2018 11:27:00 PM

the dead linger. stones and puddles in the folds of expectation. the math fails. dust and ink in the crevices of our despair. life murmurs in the hush of her lips. a distant rumor. tempting us with its seldom truths.

the sky stutters. the wind chokes. a slow race to the finish. where the ribbon has already been broken.

it doesn't wait. it can't remember. time is a predator. the moment kills and quickly devours us.

the miles surrender. ashes and tears collecting in the torn pockets of our want.

we're not alive. not anymore. just smudges on paper. empty pens stabbing the pages.

we're not here. nor are we there. the distance concedes. the journey is spent. wasted on the whims of open sores.

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