Bits of Glass Under Her Nails

Days without a sign. She stopped looking for where. And settled on why. Every season comes so abruptly. And why it always leaves so quickly.

She was drawing on the walls. In neon markers. She was playing the surgeon. Opening him up. Wondering where the parts should go.

She was flying her kite. With the help of the ocean. Paper wings strong enough. For a while.

She was plotting her life. In tepid sips. Warm drinks. On the lips of corpses. Dig me a grave. Remember. For once. This murder we committed. Those big eyes. Hot bulbs and resilient parking lots. Turn those spaces on again.

Emptier yet, for all the things that try to fill it.

The ladder too near to the window. The girl too close to the glass. Random. Like hopscotch. The failed games of children.

Now that we are old.