beige graves wear their waxy moons. the angles inventing space. where we are suffocaitng. parched kingdoms slip out of their grab. temporary gods in broken mazes. the light holds its breath. waits for sight to remember.

yellow murders toil in their prison. the day is always born. forever dead.

her words are an intersection. everything is turning.

the hours shrug. the distance sighs. she doesn't want to know the world. it doesn't need to know her. all sand and gnats in a bald charisma of corruption. an impotent chorus of
hounds barking from behind their fences.

the bridge is low and loud and impossible to forgive. 

bleak epiphanies wear their salve. in thick wrinkles and small scars. the end is untamed and quite curious. full of impatient resolve.

the box is sealed. the darkness is taut. the hours forget. the distance becomes us. limping over every shadow.

the miles confess. earnest repent more stage than solvent. labor and division worn well enough.

her choices all thumb tacks and pie crusts. the stubborn island. the official ceiling. laughing through the tears.

vacancy's ubiquitous parasites. whispering of when the blood was still fresh.

hours filter through the noise. all cliffs and parachutes. opening at random. the evidence stiffens. the colors solidify. gravity whispers. like a fever coming undone.

conscripted by choices. the yellow of patience sweet and rich like melting butter.

the diagram is feeble. our speed is untrue. where is relative. how is brutal. the anatomy of when in pins and needles. the body is a student. touch is the test.

the distance stutters. a wholly inadequate protagonist. the story lurches forward. starving for a decent villain.

she drowns in the shallow. empty epiphanies collapse. dwindling pavement. and fickle traffic lights. take us closer to perpendicular.

no more gentle parallels.

she knows the way. the obvious path. but it's weak..tears likes paper.

she is the map. all permanent ink and empty folds.

always warnings. beautiful sirens. all vinegar and carbon. still working the creases on those sharper angles.

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.

the dead leaves have their voice. soft and diligent. like how the rain falls. and the storm approaches. the stubborn angles that discover her. all chaos and confidence. under the flicker of dying bulbs.

measuring the conflict. in flattened pennies and open bridges. circling. cheating patience in stutters and sobs. waiting for the surface to return.

the paper creases. eager distortions wager their symmetry. on an arithmea of pornography and science fiction. whores riding their time machines. poets beating their madmen. nowhere we haven't already been.

a temporary vein. a permanent poison. such is the nature of how. skin. sick with itself.

the tumbling moments. each one. all of them. forever. going over the edge.

the shapes emerge. hard outlines boast their conflict.  an infinite suicide. the moment resolves to the pale complexion of if. like dirty water. and the quiet thrist that compels us to drink from it.

growing louder.

a thief. the confession. the riot of flesh. the dubious hours that consume. these manic tsars of touch.

all the words are starngers. all the hours are spent.

on petty wars. where there is no winner. a pinprick of ecstacy.

folds in time and flesh.. abundant bridges over deep chasms. her voice is paper. her words are rain. they will always be betrayed by one another.

she counts the steps. pretending she is getting closer to something.

breaking the skin of the apple. to let it rot. because regret is hidden in every ripe piece of fruit.

mediocre gods fiddling with the contrast. lazy devils distorting the volume. there is no script. only the memory black and white. the colors don't belong to us. the images are only temporary.

the precision of touch. seldom reliable, but always accurate. the science of skin in vinegar and ketchup. hope. the sweetest of venomss.

the collapse of reason. almost deliberate. as the experiences overtook her.

a slender resolve. ripe with a ferocious impotence.

her fingers the empty envelope where the words should be.

time machines. both real and imagined. finding no future.

evidence arouses. a compendium of skin. measured in cuts and wrinkles. the bones all but circumstance. as the skeletons evolve their calculations. logic she challenges is something reserved for other occasions.

the geometry of how. erupts in a stifled cough. a reaction to stimulus. nothing more.

she goes. though the going there is far. it distance soothes. a petualnt placebo often mistaken for a cure.

she wishes nothing. as easy as it sounds. the encounters. the policies of flesh. souvenirs of a fleeting democracy.

curious arrows, struggling with direction.