the machine limps below our skin. all distance and monsters. in a fury of surrender.
its rabid engine leaves its impressions in our flesh. the truth is rarely ours to quantify. still, we're always calculating.
time's hollow bones shatter in our hands. a confetti of loyalties misspent. and the fires they ignited that devoured what we might've been.
the hours ask their questions in words so brittle that they crumble as we speak them.
the pauses between us thicken.
the maps we drew together are no longer accurate.
the places we were running from have finally found us.