the edge is never far. bound by structure and tesselation. content with variables that are seldom solved. the surface is always moving away from us. it's how we know we're getting closer. the shrug of wind. burning paper on the tongue. particles at play. the exhale of the sun. deflating. in the small colors. the dimished geometry of when. the poison in the box. all possibilities within.

the journey is hungry and soft. she's absorbed by the distance. a number in a sequence. consumed by its function.

tempted by gravity she teases the fall. lured by the current. skin all rhetoric and detours. shallow steps. take her down. to the hysterical increments that draw the maps. and the manic integers that determine where they start. where they finish.

she doesn't remember. can't claim the angles nor the math. indifferent numbers paint their crying clowns. on a crowded canvas. she swallows the distance. chokes it down. pebbles and piss. much sweeter than she expected

the variables remain. unconditional. unresolved. a hollow structure. a skeleton of matchsticks. a friction of skin. an impatient host. unwilling to breathe again until she has found the constant.  where the hysteria pauses. surrenders to the current.

stubborn capillaries. insisting a path. in an ocean of blood.

tilted signs harvest shadows from the sun. turning sharply on obtuse scars. the maps betray her. the road so delicate when running. that turns fiercely hard when trying to stop.

the direction is secondary. it's the terrain that narrates. this bleak fairy tale. all acute metaphors and blunt ironies. chasing the chaotic motion of the loss.

pretending to know each other. in nervous stabs. shallow cuts that leave no workable math.

the monster in her bed. quietly killing. seldom ghosts.

the predator not obvious. the hun soft and fatal. bee stings and puddles manupulating the storm.  the road all sweat and stubbornness. as she spirals out from the edge. reaching for the embrace of a fickle gravity that too quickly forgets. what has fallen. 

the vast. laid out before us. as we frantically negotiate how small we are.

the pictures. the colors. the sound. all emotional collateral. against the eternal void. each touch a single number in a perpetual lottery of moments.

going nowhere.  just places finding us.

following the stutter of hollow roads. the pictures arrive. ghosts visiting their former skins. colors choking on the greys.

she doesn't count how long. time is all sugar and sand.

the road gives chase. gravity erupts. athe world is distant. one small pleat in a massive series of folds. the angles are what matter. the geometry is fickle. in the math that we bleed.

all smoke and lava.  numbers without faces. distance without weight.

too far she whispers. as if someone might be listening. the curiousity of touch overwhelming. closer she confesses. the crush of indifference. like a blank orgasm.

the indefinite void. the stubborn why. the scrape of skin against the glass.

the blind. looking in.

time breathes its incredulous slopes and vagrant spirals. simple paths leading to complex situations. she only knew the angle. the solution required more. she only knew the distance, but could not tell how far.

she listened for the traffic as each passing vehicle overtook her. a time machine of sorts. as she let the journey become her path.

a little bit of geometry. a handful of algebra. the numbers laughing as she calculates their weight. in flesh. in cum. in all those familiar strangers who convince us we're not alone.

the puzzle. an organism. an intelligence. occuring in patterns. too similar to love.

a chaos of images. a panic of touch. all broken glass and an hysteria skin. as quiet as it is determined. to know. the condition of the edge. 

she approaches the intersection. hungry, yet unwilling to embrace the end.

filled with tears and the scrape of crimes. unresolved. 

a left turn made in haste.

the last shadow falling in a world where gravity is absent.

.

the road unfolds. like paper. creased and stubborn. like we all are.

the shapes come together. slowly. as we press the folds. working. always working to prove. we can change. transform.

successfully manage the depths of these shallows.

small discrepancies. spoil memory. quiet storms taste her. sips of when. the edge was further.

the traffic slows her. the foul pulse of living groans its lazy anthem. all spit and habit in a sweet cocktail of envy and bordeom..

colors churn. voices bend. life is a kaleidoscope of murders. a sharp geometry of moments. randomly devouring each other.

the distance measures us. thirsty mongrels. growling at the empty well.

move closer.

it's all huge until we stumble upon something bigger.

taut division. lapsed space curdles. goes sour. makes us sick. such is the nature of flesh. it rots. and is replaced. by new diseases.

every touch is a vaccine. a shadow of the illness. to convince us that we are getting better.

the math can't be trusted. it's too literal.

all wind and thunder as the weather swells. our fading islands just another bit of emotional trivia.

the open window. the heavy ladder. the climb to questions hardly worth the trip. missing places on a fading map.

tenative paths through the cull of condition.

she clutches the moon. old friends in new disguises. the arrogance of truth. imagining it knows us.

the cold. winter blinks and we see summer. but it doesn't see us.

the cold pretends. though blindness is its greatest strength. the cold laughs as the angles attempt to justify.

the road narrows. perspective is crippled.

it's more science than art she confessed. like everything else it breaks down. decimals. division. fragments.

the numbers walk like giants. their shadows make us infinite.

time is paper. folded into lives. tiny ogres in their brittle dresses. counting out loud. the burnt bread and  missing meat. the ugly songs that make us dance. the beautiful ones we refuse to hear.

soft candles hugging the wick. all nervous flame and fading heat. warm lies fresh from the oven.

it's more noise than language she concedes. frantic bridges spanning increasing gaps. crease patterns. and arrogance. humble demons. trying on worn out maps.

it's close enough now she said. i can see how small it is.

It's near and it's far. That arrogant  paradox lovers call life. It's a beautiful lie for someone else to tell.

A lot of waiting for the surface to forget. For the stones to find the bottom.

the stutter of time as it chokes on these reflections.

the water without depth. the wind without reason. as time yawns to swallow us. a carnival of skin. a parade of gawkers to sample the madness. and the quiet clowns left to catalogue what remains of the circus.

the water is still shallow. after all of these years.

a deaf song. a broken crutch. gray colors choking the margins.

i don't know. never have. can't sense the distance. can't judge the weight.