Gifts

The numbers infiltrate. Her time line crumbles. Chasing the math. In grim apocalypses. it always ends. Only to begin again. And though I try to remember, it's all gone. Such are the whims of sightless monsters and the dark cages in which we keep them.

It's over. By the scrape of her dress against her scabby knees. It's done. As sure as the scar forms over the tired openings in her skin. This skin proclaims its tensile dominion over the heresy of touch. Determined bridges. Crumbling under the gentle weight of our footsteps.

Time lines measuring. The breadth of our defiance. As we scavenge for the source of their power. She said years. I think. Maybe more. Determining. She said time didn't matter. Though it was a heavy burden. All feints of gravity on a life that has no mass. Stumbles up missing stairs. Empty rooms. Closed doors. Black holes retain the light. Theirs to keep.

Time lines despairing for us. As we stutter through this darkness. Blind orphans. Pressing buttons. For any reaction.

The sign on the road says I'm almost there. The numbers on the machine are not to be trusted. The darkness weighs nothing. I can pick it up. The wolves are close. I can hear them breathing. Hungry for straw houses.

And a girl in the woods. Still searching time lines. For a light that never was.