Making Her Bed

The tempo asks her. How fast she'd like to go. The long legs of dirty jeans ascending toward the summit of her crotch.

Want governs choices in an absolute Nazi regime. Touch negotiating tenderly any form of freedom for the survivors that remain.

The war went on forever. And she grew tired of it eventually. Words a heavy scale to weigh nothing in particular. Memories to gnaw on the remaining threads. Of fraying gowns. Long after the party has ended.

The candy apple in her bedsheets eager to be bitten. The poison masquerading as sweet. In too many forms to count.

I tried on the device. When I woke it was over. Fragments of when I was closer to them. The broken second hand relentlessly counting that same moment. Until there were no others.

It's not the future until you fear it.

It's not poetic until you're hopeless.