empty palm. weak fingers. spoiled math. stale conceits. it's always cold in certain places.

the humble soldier when. in a war of ifs.

all the colors. that's what it is. or none of them. the ground pretends it's still there.

far. too far she knows. that much is always certain.

stuttering gravity. soft crayons drowning in paper. 

the ebbing traffic. the lazy ghosts. thumbing through strangers. the cult of curiosity. the dogma of indifference. skin like stray cats. voices like thieves. no possessions. only borrowed chances. culling their portals from equal parts addiction and sober.

obvious jailers. subtle judges. the blur of hope. the clarity of surrender.

conditions. fading hows. the weak of gravity penetrating lesser gods.

she chews on the pulp. dwindling choices.  empty angles. she memorizes the exit. all yield signs and snaking ramps.

soft ratchets in loose connections. examining the pauses. the fundamental monsters that make victims of us all.

obvious ghosts favoring the brake. choices all panic and corn starch. as the oven warms.

the meat is pale. the flesh is dark. the anatomy of choice overwhelming.

the colors. more hysteria than life. the doorways. corrupt. the collapsing structure. all plastic demons. and paper gods. tumbling slopes unraveling. to the perpetuity of lost.

listening for that silent alarm. cause. effect. in their indignant parade. steps. steps always taking us. to all the wrong places.

numbers pretend their language. broken paths swallowing the knots. all wet footprints and tentative creases. obvious tomorrows spoiled by incredulous pasts. softly insistant. shouts in the wind.

her voice like chapters. her eyes like punctuation. strangers devoured by their narrative. 

flesh is a story we tell again and again.

we were lost, but that was nothing. more necessity than accident.

the hours gamble. our bodies the wager. no one wins.

i never wanted anything, until i couldn't have it.

words... blunt hammers on the gentle slope of her lips.

the corners always come first. deep paper cuts in life's tender lengths. the beginning and the end. that's what they remember. everything in between is just static.

a panorama of events struggling to reconcile a singular path. gaps in the pieces. cracks in the glass. the long division of touch. the cold parameters of when.

simple bridges. savoring the distance to collapse.

scrutiny's antipathy. swollen bits of spite and gall. a crime of plenty. a wisdom of loss.

it's seldom. as seldom as seldom must behave. the wick of distraction. spoiling in apathy's flame. steal the edge and sell the circumference. too many circles content in their long division.

just like the hungry forest or the empty bed. the villains are always attractive. the laws reluctant. a checkerboard of moments. pawns everywhere. a strategy of hammers in a game of glass.

pieces find us. all latent colors and backward folds. lives like paper. choices like rain.

the flesh is strategy. the bones are wagers.

pain is a map. it takes us everywhere. time is currency. it purchases chances.

the mind is a mortgage against the meat.we are always in debt.

it's cold here inside my skin.

dim parables exploit the flesh. obvious crises foul the buttons.

these arrogant machines. more superstition than science. these heavy bones. like a pendulum of trust.

all this empty space. its silence echoing. bald fractions devour the math of lovers and friends. the decimal confesses. the portions deflate.

the future came and went. while we were busy with the script.

ice cubes in the glass. melting situations. paper protagnists. in the wet stories of men and women. the slope of touch. like spoiled medicines. the promise of disease as it shapes us.

all blunt needles and frayed threads. the preposterous plague of hope. as it stumbles. spreading its infection.

she disliked her parents for having given her life. and herself for being too cowardly to undo their mistake. so she drank. such as it is.  because it was a compromise between living and dying. and she wrote. because it proved she was doing both of them and neither.
she'd gone miles. at least thirty she estimated. riding her bicycle was a freedom unique to the endeavor. she could've driven her car, but that wasn't the point. most people ride for the sport. she rides for the distance.

far from home. alone. flirting with stranded. it was where she belonged. lost. it was what she's always been.  as many times as she'd gone back to where she started, she'd never once returned.

lost had and always would be her greatest love. she visited it often. and was many times taken by it.

far was always close. and the deeper she dug into it, the more of it she wanted. a natural born addict for anything that could do more harm.

it's a process. all melting ice and incredulous metaphors. always searching for an irony  that isn't there in life's mundane  tragedies. 

she started walking. there wasn't any choice. not certain where she was. it seemed impossible to get back to where she'd been.

she'd been truly loved only once. and had diligently submitted herself to that glorious deceit. that tenuous fabrication of earnest flesh and sallow mind.

haunted her. resonated in her skin. a gradual poisoning.

it was. all of it manufacturered. from the first breath to the last. a broken mirror solving for when. a parody of depths to measure a delirium of nothing.

she was walking. towing the crippled machine by her side. she envied it. that it could break. that it could be repaired.

choices smother us. in the temporary utopia of if. and we are want to drown. all crimped and complicit to the conceit of commitment. and the strays it nutures with its scraps.

she's an hysterical oblivion. rich with neccesity. pale with excess. resolving to more fraction. explicit to dwindling pieces. discarding her skin a touch at a time.

shameless bones lost in a funeral of flesh.

rubber bands and broken pencils her only audience. geniuses and skeptics her dwindling friends. the variants still unresolved. time's bloody knuckles still pounding on the bald trenches between sex and vomit.

she doesn't have a name. still she searches for it.

listen to the dead. their words precede us. fractions of when overlooked among chapters of how. trust the hopeless. they have no reason to deceive. petulant buoys adrift  in the gap between lost and found.

the bursting lenses. obstinate matadors spoiling the horns. eyes struggle to see, but continue to fail.

her victims. all wet ink and wrinkled pages. inspiration's hungry theives. sexuality's appealing vultures.

the wet blade. the sharp of the paragraph's edge. all her silly monsters. counting their ropes.

just the remaining colors. some awkward metaphor.

all devils without their horns. and places trying to find people. .