the locks break. they always do. there's no permanent key. just the inches between us and surrender. laughing like jello in an earthquake.
life is a series of pictures taken by those who mistakenly believe they can see.
the road chases the black butterfly. in guilty increments. the constantly evolving crime of want. absorbs what we were. consumes what we are.
the heart is an instrument. it measures how lost we are. gravity whispers. we arrive in a discretionary decay. all particles and pretense. reveling in the mud that has broken our fall.
accusing the destination. though the journey is the culprit.
how much farther she asks. feet heavy with finding. the hungry paths.
the hours are actors. their stage a brittle bridge. between loyalty and foolishness. he never said. he didn't have to. the silence was more than willing to speak.
the road was mine. the distance his.