Monday 11/02/2009 02:03:00 AM

This was us. Beta solved in endless loops. Relentlessly undoing what must be done. Her lips raw with decisions she was bound to regret. Her eyes. A beautiful song whose words I could not remember. It's all just like cut grass. Whispering under foot. All those ghosts stomping on our garden. Too tired to care. That the dead are more alive than us.

The molecule is the victim. In this story I tell too much. Makeshift machines pretend to bring the future. My sheets tell another story.

I could catch her if I really tried. With honeydew and soft perfume. She merely a woman. Nothing so spectacular. That it can't be solved with a few algebra problems. The poetry of numbers is patient to a fault.

But the skin. It's always looking for a pattern. Some sequence to follow. Hungry for the promise of its next victim. The paper. Like soft bullets. Digging appropriate trenches.

I find the fragements so humble. As they cheat through our flesh. Empty shoes beside the door. Foul with the places I have been. Nowhere left to walk in them.

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