the distance stole our breath. the frost took our hope. the economics of intimacy called our bluff.
there were many intersections. there was nowhere to go.
you can't ask for directions. you can't read the map. when you're out there alone. it's just the asphalt as candy. and the miles relentless. though i've stopped counting. the distance does not.
it's the end of the world.. in toothpicks and sober. it's the weather. braiding all those empty skins. it's the moment. swallowing itself whole.
we tell ourselves it could never be this cold. but we don't believe it.