Saturday 12/26/2009 12:35:00 AM

Heavy books with no words in them. Her skin like tissue paper. Her thighs as fragile as glass ornaments. In all that snow I dug a space for him. Hurt that he thought I wouldn't do that.

Elastic ribbons on empty boxes. The future on idle. As we sped to our epilogues. Pale doormen usher us in to shinier cages. Bigger boxes.

I confront myself. This old women in my fist. To squeeze and hate. As I would any stranger. This old woman doused in my wrinkled skin. An ugly rendition of years to come.

Hours in minutes. Years in her grin. As the empty elevator moves away.

I've found my utopia. I'm still waiting for it to find me.

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