The Paradox of the Flesh

Tepid strands spoil the inflection. Saliva points like icicles. Toward the gravity at the center of his dilemma. No kind way to say. No words that can undo what's happened.

So just let it. Be tragic. For as long as it will allow.

Trace the goose bumps. Connect the dots. With our broken crayons. And empty pens. This is only a beginning of an end. It's mine to draw. As sober as I want.

It's mine to lose. Whatsoever I might've had. Cornered on the balcony with the weight of my wherefores. Seeing Shakespeare's when only Steele's are there.

The romance not withstanding its audience.

This airplane soars briefly before forgetting its thrust. Simple folds create wings from squares of paper. One good push is all they ask.

We don't need to touch the sun to know it's there. Nor swallow the dirt to know the ground is waiting to greet our impact.

If I'm not wise enough by now, I'll never be. If the hurt was meant to teach me something, it's failed.

The paradox of the flesh testifies that the more lovers we've taken the fewer friends we have.