the tug of skin. all color and folds. drowning in time. stubborn paper coming undone. the nauseous arithmetic of touch. a suicide of sober. in a circus of diremption.
she measures distance in images. flashes in her mind. crude lines. vehement hues. every step a picture taken through a broken lens. no focus. just blurred edges.
the lost have their own maps. their crude imitations of direction. good for a time.
she stops. challenging the weak tug of gravity. she has a sympathy for the beast. all emotional theory and malfunctioning bridges. crisp dichotomy and failing manipulations choking on the flawed devotions of flesh.
the miles accumulate, the distance becomes her. the swift punch of humility. wakes her up. the gentle scrape of want puts her to sleep.
everything is small.
little boxes. delicate angles. paper walls. the crumbling perimeter. fractions of when. we still knew ourselves. each other. the diminishing catastrophe of having lived.
the ignorant ocean. the stubborn sand. their endless collisions. time's absurd opiate. the map unravelling inside her. the distance a martyr. the path a villain.
everything is small from this far away.