The Weight of Archeology

You leave in your mind before you're ever really gone. Discarding theoretical lips. Wringing the words down the drain. Soiled soap carries the filth away. In permutations of a karma that fill the holes in our flesh with dead skin.

And so we wait. for the new to come and push it away.

The very idea is poison. Surfactants convince the moments to mix. Lies like detergents soften the soil that keeps up apart. We're barren. Not clean. We haven't saved ourselves. We've orphaned them.

In the candy store which so much resembled his hardening heart. The molecules of sugar discussed the differences between sitting on the shelf and being eaten. It was, they supposed, suicide either way. Or murder. Depending how much you hate yourself.

Tracing the sun through a dirty pane of glass. Thick markers make a mess of the finer points. It's only art if you can't control it. It's only beautiful when it defeats us.

Yesterday. Even after tomorrow it still weighs so much.