Shoots and Ladders

Long knives. Short handles. That's what love is. Warm blood. Cold skin. Years. Bits of theory. To tinker with. How far is now. From then. From if. We're soaked. Dirty rags in the fireplace. Lavish with the fumes. We're helpless. All the knots in this skin.

Coming undone.

The moment. Hard on the paper. Dying pen scratching out the words. In bloodless cuts. Go to sleep she told him. Wake up someone different. Or at least. Someone with balls enough to admit I shouldn't love him.

Broken glasses full of wine. That's what love is. Stubborn men with their knees to their chest. Women foolish enough to think that they could pry their way into such a fortress.

It's then. It's now. It's if. We paint the the ground as blue as the sky. Assume ourselves clever. Thinking no one can see.

Until gravity betrays us.

What an amusing games this is. Hurting each other.