The Color of Arithmetic

Her foot dangles on the edge. Raping the weaker instances of gravity. Her lips pucker with the sweet pull of poison. A corner piercing her throat as the hour trundles past. The angles define the space. The lack determines the how. She's a circle. All the distances are equal. All the edges are blunt.

We can multiply. Let ourselves be haunted. By the obsolete machines that infect our skin. The edge. In butterfly's wings. The weight of gravity in whispers. I still hear even in my deafness.

We can subtract. Remove the pistons from this fleshy machine. And let inertia do the rest. Playing the gods we wish were there. Acting the devils we need to blame.

We can divide. Ignore the mass. Saving the tug of gravity for another day.

I'm weightless. Let me fall. I was going to anyway.