thieves enough she ventured. given the downward trajectory of the sun. earnest puzzle pieces undeterred by reason.

she wondered how. as the circumstance consumed her. she toyed with why as it happened. the clumsiness of life. each existence ruthlessly absorbed by a relentless invasion of moments. pages resolved to the standard poisons. with little resistance.

this awkward affair between intellect and skin. loose scabs flaunting all their glorious infections. 

urgent faces coming into focus. hungry actors drowning in the famine of their audience. reluctant gunshots negotiating stubborn wounds.

she sees how far. in broken crutches and brittle bridges. a long allegory of strangers in the shadow of the scorpion's sting. the familiar venom of lovers and friends.

years lived. a measure of distance more than time.

the grey walls melted into the fading sun. spawning daring bridges in the shadows. her thoughts stumbling. vacant and engorged. swaying footholds in the fists of gravity.

the black roads swelled beneath her wheels. hills surging like waves. her most exquisite grief. effortlessly hijacked by the coarse bark of time and distance.

he didn't ask. she didn't offer. a hollow transaction between empty bodies.

not far at all it seemed to her. years in seconds. miles in inches. the steady creak of churning gears. the beautifully broken song of living.

repetition knows us. fragments of when. pieces of how. the pervasive condition of if. paper gods blotted out by earnest heavens. 

the hungry moments. devour us. jagged pieces that are hard to swallow .

stale villains adjust their weapons. distant targets move further away. the empty wars that pretend to know. a way to win.

the callous formula of skin. resolves to her caress. another balloon lost to gravity's fickle embrace. another dead man trying on his running shoes.

perhaps too long. since last i met with those familiar shadows. maybe too easy to pretend that the distance can be measured.

the harsh linear resolves. to awkward silence and impulsive bargains. both hungry and generous in the art of surrender. chased by colors that will never be ours.

lost is soft. lost is hard. all fairy tales and wolves. simple strangers. complicated friends. candy houses and roiling witches. in the sweet transition that eventually determines. how far it is.

touch corrupt with potential. voices bleak with long detours.  we blame the bridges and ignore the steps.

it was slow. soft music below the skin. curdling. going sour. it was sudden. the missing sun. the stubborn rain.

shapeless mannequins. dancing in black windows.

empathy resolves. as it often will. to the smaller scars. the lesser wounds.

acceptance is all incredulous mirrors. and shit on our shoes.

every direction is wrong.

the wind swallows the path. the journey is a liar. the distance is a thief.

only tomorrow remembers us.

crazed acrobats in time's infinite circus. fearless clowns that let the pain get close enough.

where it goes. where it came from.

hurt remains the only bridge.

idle temptations. everything is so far away. I am seduced by the horizon.  Yet betrayed by the distance.

The water surrounds us. It always has. I've only just begun to notice how shallow our prison.

it's the end of the world. it always is. everything is burnt matches and cigarette butts.

I asked him why. he didn't understand. his words snake bites. bits of poison to steal some blood. and leave me spoiling for a cure.

he asked me why. i couldn't answer. just crayons and condoms making their art from our panicked detours.

all creases and smudges. as skin gives way to reason.

the nervous abstract. the reluctant addict. the arrogant numbers that decide how far. all wind and sweat on roads that rarely remember.

the wonderful paradox of fresh scabs on old wounds.

patterns realize her. all sober devils and soiled napkins. the feast has no meat. no knives. only bare bones. empty flesh.  and the treachery of progress. as it romances isolation.

the broken colors. voices chase the high. brief fits of clarity spoil long winters of chaos.

the journey. gnawing at my mind. the destination lost. like melting ice.

time was counting, but not for us. we were orphans. all circles and squares. in a world without dimension.

close to the boundary. far from the edge. words wither like flower petals ripped from the stem.

no growth. only stale gardens. and time. ripe with stagnant pendulums.

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.