Part Ten
We are a sum. An accumulation of choices.
We are the unbalanced equation of time, distance and speed.
Wrinkles in worn pages. Faded letters in crippled sentences stumbling towards their graceless finish.
We know each other because our grief collided and our crutches tangled.
But we’re still free to still run. Even as time slips inside our skin.
Even inside the machine, time only punctuates the distance between us.
We’re soft and sharp. Icicles in the sun. Sharpened by what's been taken from us.
We’re ink under the skin. Permanent stains.
I bargain with time for an ending, but the distance is not convinced.
The wolves twitch in their nightgowns. As we spill our picnic baskets.
I don't say. I never could.
how frail our monsters have become.
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