a smile of clouds. and a grin of rain.
moments. arid and indifferent. the soul is a desert. the flesh is an ocean. we are always lost. even when we know where we are going.
even in the brightest burst of summer. there is always the scratch of winter. scraping bone.
every moment. a lazy time machine. content to leave us stranded. quiet children in dirty clothes and spoiled epiphanies.
flesh like crude arithmetic against the intricate algorithms of the skeleton.
guided softly by the council of distance.
she measures her choices. each one narrower than the one before. she names her ghosts. convinced of the math in their stones. heavier still as each day passes.
Gravity doesn't know. Cannot understand. The sensation of falling.