it's far she says. like a bit of math caught in her throat.
how far he asks. already aware there is no measure.
there are moments. like fists. stabbing at the dark. jagged blades strangling against the void. their smallness so immense. their impotence absolute.
it effortlessly consumes us. our meek pinholes eclipsed. our frail fury rejected. the flesh evolves in spite of us. and the muscles. and the organs. a cacophony of crippled gods shouting at their broken thrones.
she no longer writes upon it, but she still remembers how the paper cuts. swiftly. deeply. and always unexpected. like love. like sex. like surrender.
there are choices. impetuous soldiers in an arrogant conflict. all broken glass and loose buttons. soft with defeat. and the impossible chaos of learning again. borrowed destinations and natural dead ends.
our tired ghosts. their absent villains.
loss shouts too accurately. hope whispers so vague.
it rains. and we are helpless. spent like the wind. in all the wrong plaeces.
choices are barren. they surrender to the science. melting candles. still loyal to the flame.