the high fades. flesh is solvent again. the business of survival resumes.
small ribbons. deep knots. guard empty boxes. still we want what's inside them.
the cracked glass on the face of the clock. tells time in chokes and gasps. the torn curtains on the window grab at the sunlight as it rushes in. nevertheless every evening it escapes again.
it always comes the same way. furious at first. excrutiatingly beautiful. the suffocating beginning. a gorgeous death. the agonizing middle. that destroys any want. the callous end. the specter of survival exhuming our corpses.
the paper was soft. a generous gauze for a deep wound.
the ink was dark. the words were ridiculously hopeful..
only the edge was sure of itself as it broke the skin.