Cold Roses in the Pasted Vase

The tomb comes in pieces. Formulaic shreds of time chasing broken dials. With a soft voice and a cold fist. The constant. Eagerly casts her lips on the button. Sending us away from each other again.

Apart is not a function. Why is not a variable. I play with the numbers. Helplessly remiss to their logic. Hard edges make it impossible to remember the ones I've already counted.

So I start over. From the deep gate at the cusp of her pelvis. Using her tits like crutches. I stumble toward the gods. With kingdoms extracted from our flesh. Our bones their dirty highways. Our coffins their peripheral alphabets. As they tease the words. With letters not enough. Measuring the weight of nothing.

The code comes as her back consumes. All the dreary metaphors I've left to flourish. In the heat of the window's breath. Lost comes in confessions. NO rain. No wind. Just a clarity too confident. And the certainty of more storms still to come.

Cut flowers die slowly in the dirty water where we keep them.