Loud Mimes

The slope. The tender anecdote between words and sweat. Time in fables called memory. The truth becomes us. In feeble thrusts. The cough. Tin lungs. Alone exploding in bits of touch. Lips of Lycra cling hard to the shape of us.

and just as easily forget.

Down. The empty anthill in the rain. All turning to mud. The scout. Bringing fairy tales back to the colony. Buzzing briefly with bigger and better gods.

Then. Tournaments of skin running through us in broken marathons. Pretending we could ever go that far.

Now. Cheating the darkness in little jumps. Of rope not tied. To anyone. Losses. Quick. As the world is. To prove us wrong.

Or try.