the curved bone reached for the edge. that glorious intersection where the muscle finds its strength. and all that we want to be becomes possible.
the quiet road listened. for the thunder of feet. but it never came.
her voice broken by the math. too much division. choices spent in vain. the slope of why too steep. the riddle of how more vinegar than honey.
we waste our days cutting the sun into equal wedges. and our nights insisting the darkness isn't real.
opening the flesh. the skeleton is exposed. all that we are. frail sticks propping up thinning curtains.
the void behind them long ago exposed.
time ties its knots in our skin. and we go on. building our straw houses. envying the other pigs.