Iterations of Us

Numbers in the spaces between touch and feel. Colors to negotiate the shape of alone. Skin is a cryptograph. Sex is the solution to it. The riddle is what to do with all this confidence.

Seal the monster up in this cage of ribs. Where everything goes to die. Or let it loose upon to feed upon this voracious landscape of flesh.

Either way.

There's still this war. And all these corpses. To bury.

Either way.

No one's hurt. Except those that I was trying to save.

So many missing time machines make it impossible to know.

Where I was.

Where I was going.

Too many iterations of us. I can't tell if we ever knew each other.

It's just time. Wearing bras too small. Scratching in old ledgers. Failing to subract. Each dimension with its own threat. Bleeding soft. THe reamins of too much ink ony my wrists. Pharmaceuticals unquenched in the dark of my drawer. Until something remembers what I cannot. Too much of it. The truth mushrooming. The subtle destruction right has wrought. Ambivalent. Transparent as a whore.

I'm right. I've gone too far back. There is no time machine anymore. I'm there. Like a wasp. Counting the stings to kill the ant. I'm there. Without a time machine. Trying to prepare myself for when it's gone.

An failing even before it's happened.