Silhouteetes in Ink

Stale dogma of touch all that there is left to worship. The germ between her look and her word. Bits of cancer looking for a host. Finding only victims. They die too quickly. My disease gets so bored.

The skin I've chartered for this trip. Glossy lollipops uncomfortable in their cellophane dresses. Stranded in that last square of hopscotch for want of a stone to throw. For lack of another foot to land on.

It's not hopeless. Just hard to imagine ever wanting to feel that way again. Caught in a hole in the nest. The tip of the condom tormenting a ripe egg.

It's not paper, but it feels that same. Trying to decide how much longer to wait.

The soft collars that we are left to wear. So much heavier than they were when.

The frivolity of men in all phases of sex. No longer astonishes. But it's still loud enough to hear without every having to listen.