hungry corners consume the fallow meat. christened by alone. simple numbers. complex equations. under the yoke of reality. the dead only whisper.

the slope. desperate angles that reason with the skin. animals with their claws removed still scratching at the glass.

the lingering path that draws us. stabbing at the empty page. like so many broken pencils.

the dream woke her up. as dreams are sometimes wont to do. the stern wisdom of distance flickering like a dying lamp.

the journey took her. as they often do. every mile a dagger. the destination painfully blunt.

whispering skin. so loud. deaf fingers groping to hear it.

she goes too far. that is her intention. butterflies in the road. painting their wings.

the colors. the weather. the moment. unstable isotopes in a molecular conceit.

love scrapes. sandpaper confessions. the body accomodates. the sweet espionage of a kiss. eventually  betrays.

it's the small  battles that break us.

chasing the wind. fits of surrender grinning like jack o lanterns. empty eyes filled with fire and mischief. wandering. finding. the distance rewards dedicated skin. and the edges's eager advocates.

in the dark. there are only the colors that pretend to listen. long paths carry on their murders. one confession at a time. the simple funeral of touch buries what remains of expectation.

the road resolves to how far we've come. a curious equation. more circumstance than science.

the pictures take us. and we are taken by them. the corners are stubbron. false gods with their fingers on the apocalypse.

the years she's spent on how. all of them worthless.

the measured autonomy of silence is swift. a grave architect. all dry mortar and wet bricks. the hum of construction in dead ends and open drawbridges. death is never about the grave. only what's left.

the distance wears her. pink cheeks and stained denim.

she wanders. the leash forgotten. finding only new versions of lost. colorful and arrogant. as are all disappointments.

the religion of skin is persistant. though less than reliable. there are never words enough. there are never the right colors. to prove those monsters exist.

so we just bark. like dogs. frightened by all the noises too big to understand.

drowning in the shallow end. her thighs like melting ice cubes.

her soft words. her hard decisions. the temperamental flood that is reason. all salt and confession. in dull needles and inadequate medicines.

the obvious disease. the whisper of touch. struggles to focus. on objects much too close.

a verbose silence wonders under her breath. epiphany's dense suicides. come rapidly and random. expectations are paper. a microcosm of wrinkled graves.

time is a whore. sour pleasures festering in the remnants of sultry fever. more surrender than submission. if such a distinction can still be made.

her fingers scraping the fissure. all marrow and old bruises. making maps of brilliant scars.

the fickle cartography of flesh. where we go and by whom we are taken.

open doors. empty rooms.

the number confides. yawning scars. the future in increments. chasing promises long since expired. meat clings to the bone. but hunger easily manipulates any given circumstance.

soft scabs fester. a riot of flesh. small revolutions distort us. animals gnawing on leashes attached to no one. lazy roads ambling into storms that never burst open. the angle of if sharper than ever. the pull of gravity like a lover scorned.

the distance is measured, not in effort, but in depth. we don't go anywhere. we are always taken.

in inches. in miles. in pieces. the mosaic of touch always building upon its cumulative treason.

one road. a hundred. there's always a bridge. there's always a gap to cross.

she's gone. the glass is dark. we wait for the siren. though we're unsure of the crime.

a fatal submission. to the religion of how. to the sin of why.

the empty penetrates. bent needles. dry syringes. humble diseases. linger on the end of her lips. all library paste and old magazines. alone becomes us. in rained on parades and faded colors.

it's cold. all yellow nightmares on barren roads. all eyes. no voices. just angry stares.

it's dark. chasing gravity through back doors in the sun. seldom villains and absentee heroes. no path. only the dying echo of the life that came before this one.

it's hot. everything is white. blurred. and chaotic. flesh collides. words fall apart.

it's bright. so loud. all hungry crows fighting over the carrion.

the edge is sharp. it draws blood as I approach it. the edge is elegant and hopeful. ripe with so much falling.

silence is a dull blade. wandering cuts. shallow and jagged. distribute their pain in whispers. meandering bridges chase the din. this chaos of touch that promises relief.but mostly infects.

the journey possesses. greater than velocity, less than mass. the science is strict. the interpretation more lenient. the itch is deep. too deep to scratch. still we venture further in.

the colors remember. thick with the panic of when. All long dresses and sweet, sweet songs. as we take a moment to pretend there's still more than there is less.

reasoning with the math. she finds the decimal is in the wrong place.

too close. too close is always a danger.

the threat of taste. the loyalty of skin. permanent wagers on temporary conditions.

only the needle remains. after all the holes have been mended. only that small knot. to hold all those stitches in place.

The apples still in the garden are left to rot.