the edges struck each other. no force. just interference. a tunnel through the lingering chaos.
her fingers stumbled over his skin. blunt needles searching for some way to deliver their message.
she didn't know whether it was poison or medicine.
time assembled its machines. a long series of suicides. calibrated just so. each one punctuated by a resurrection.
the numbers danced. in their vacant cloaks. measuring all the pieces she had broken. she listened to the sounds. as it kept counting backward from nothing.
she didn't know whether she was lost or had been found.
the shapes were fluid. the colors whispered in soft words. the distance shrugged off its grin. an empty noose swaying in the wind.
she didn't know whether it was the beginning or the end.
shallow creases taste our skin. casual predators.
stalking voids we never knew were there.
the smell of time is both sweet and sour.
old clothes caked with blood and expectation.
change holds its breath.
a frail ladder caught between trust and shame.
choice is a curious artifact.
left behind by false prophets.
tripping over evolution's narrow geometry.
seduced by biology's furious math.
we wander within love's invisible walls.
stabbing at the narrative with broken pencils.
never understanding why we are lost.
the kitten chews her tail. the corpuscle takes a breath.
time pauses. slick with intent.
we feed ourselves to the nearest oblivion.
arbiters of nothing. conspirators of conscience.
the rabbit discards his ears. the tendon closes its eyes.
momentum chews its hook.
grim with the evidence. we stumble into gravity.
disobedient monarchs. in crowns of lead.
chained to the miles. spent by the distance.
calculating choices. as everything combusts.
dutiful is the orphan. loyal is the thief.
fickle is the decimal as it wanders through our skin.
the whims of broken numbers elegantly poisoning us.
when the distance first tasted us, we surrendered.
scrambled stitches in time. more arithmetic than flesh.
worn by circumstance. gentle levers against our shame.
selling ourselves in the narratives of broken strangers.
the numbers assemble their weighted bridges.
seldom predators wag their tongues.
the distance ripens
and we are stranded.
the pieces we collect
too heavy to carry.
gravity grins.
as we sink into our footprints.
time licks its wounds
while we tear out the stitches.
the miles overtake us. stern auditors of our crumbling path.
into the wind we stumble. too loose in these heavy skins.
selling ourselves to strangers in paper cups.
the distance measures us in exceptions. and the chaos of touch.
the weight of when whispers.
the autonomy of time collapses.
making us small again.
the sour of the world curdles under our tongues.
spoiling the taste of anything sweeter.
tenured atoms split their arbiters.
the heavy drape of faltering kings.
the future insists.
more friction than grease.
the weight of when tenders its applause,
in hollow pragmatists.
gravity discards its scales.
we all fall at the same speed.
we fumble with the fragments of our skin.
fractured patterns in a stolen mirror.
the remnants of our courage
too exposed to solve its puzzle.
the darkness sputters.
nearly frail enough to trust.
old time machines sharpen their claws. .
hungry for our corpses.
cold as you remember.
no light to clutch your skin.
who we are is a simple equation.
where we've been over how far we've strayed.
though the numbers are soft.
the remainders are rigid.
it's a simple currency.
flesh for flesh.
regardless of the weight.
it's a curious debt.
that's rarely repaid.
warm as you recall.
the decimal's tender embrace.
as it lets you slip inside a sanctuary
where you don't belong.
we shape the words.
we sort the grief.
architects of an impossible choice.
steps away from paradise.
we destroy the only bridge.
time swallows us slowly. sweet candy skeletons laced with putrid marrow.
though hunger pays it no mind.
change hunts gradually. sharp claws scratch the surface.
while underneath the tender meat remains.
waiting turns sour. closed eyes forget how to see.
the truth bangs its hammer. and all the nails slither into place.
there are no lies. only spoiled memories.
we wander. feasting on the distance. as lost threads its needle.
we search the edges.. toting baskets heavy with choices.
foolishly bargaining with the wolf.
as if we're not already caught in his teeth.
the lines resolve to something narrower.
that's what truth is.
colors without names.
and lips that never move
as our words trample them.
the distance solves for when.
a curious magician
searching for his rabbit.
the corner is loud
as we scrape the edge.
the void is silent
as it sticks out its tongue.
the bridge trembles
under the weight of our expectations.
time she said, is better measured in whispers.
as perspective stumbles over our empty skins.
the simple knots that we struggle to undo. listen as we crawl inside their puzzles.
voices lost in the spaces between where we are and the voids we're chasing.
the empty corners flaunt their tombs. cold remainders in a lingering inferno.
the slope of time much too steep.
the edge laughs out loud. at the obvious thieves under our skin.
gravity bares its teeth.
we're no closer now. nor any further.
the distance stumbles over itself. a virtue and a warning.
for those still searching.
that where we find ourselves is only a condition of where we've been.
all the little numbers add up.
gravity clenches its fist.
as we run along the edge. daring it to trip us.
denominators in smeared lipstick. flirting with arrogant decimals.
we're sure. because what else can we be. as we pretend to know what we never can.
we're thin. and taut. slender strings desperate to retain all that is moving away from us.
we're atmosphere. and ozone. an inferno encapsulating the world. as if we can contain it.
apostles of inertia. swinging on broken pendulums. counting zeroes.
all the little lies. as the fractions bite down.
the math is simple.
as gravity exhales.
everything depends
on what is left.
the distance penetrates. sharp curves and sour slopes.
searching for the places under our skin where the truth hides.
time tangles its knots. and we are helpless again.
the ache sells its stories. broken windows for us to sneak inside.
curious monsters in random masks. biting the wind.
measuring our progress in the space between us.
the pieces collect in the void. worn much too loudly.
the villains grin. as we stumble forward.
in spite of the darkness.
crippled thieves barter with the truth.
a casual transaction of skin and shame.
a wealth of deceit to settle a debt older than choice.
the windows watch with their transparent eyes.
pitying the strays.
the walls whisper with their wooden tongues.
all the things we never said.
the distance tells its stories.
an indifferent narrator to the follies of our lives.
time is our currency.
as we fumble for purchase on life's treacherous slopes.
the friction of touch our only advantage.
as we pursue the edge.
the miles overtake us.
we swim in the embrace of the flood..
a chorus of silence.
while we wait for the chance to breathe again.
the edge sleeps softly in its tremulous conceit. touching everything. feeling nothing.
worn by the distance in soiled gowns and muddy fingers.
the monster carries his face in his hands. searching for the place where he might wear it again.
in deep forests where little girls tote their heavy baskets.
his heart full of broken zippers. his voice distorted by decrepit fangs.
the distance simmers in his breath. all too eager to scald him.
the edge counts backward. from beginning to end. a curious dare.
skin places its bets. all melted candy and empty wrappers.
the monster discards his claws. and waits. for the world to change.
unaware that it already has.
the light falters. worn by too many shadows.
seldom rabbits in the tall grass. tremble under the watchful gaze of paralyzed wovles.
ghosts in the doorway dig their fingers into our thoughts. selling resurrection from the bottom of their boots.
the light falters. divided by too many windows.
ambivalent corpses stiffen in the soft refraction. swimming through the jagged edges of the glass. the petulant inhabitants of abandoned skins.
the light falters. cut by the sharp corners where it tends to stray.
our voices linger at the threshold. timid orphans with severed tongues.
slender threads knotted in all the wrong places. are all that conenct us.
quieter still spun the path. shedding all the turbulence from dead flesh.
the why trundled onward. a sliver of a reason. amongst the immensity of our nothing.
i had been waiting. chewing on the silence. thinking it could sate my hunger.
i had been counting. the contents of the fairy tale.
the witches. the wolves. the victims.
imagining there might be a ratio that could reconcile.
all the broken equations under our skin.
i had been watching the rain fall. anticipating the flood.
waiting to drown.
forgetting that i knew how to swim.
time she surmised had its own agenda.
a path meticulously situated between corruption and salvation.
sharp dice in the hands of strangers.
speckling every victory with someone else's blood.
a sunken variable.
stranded in a sseries of unsolved equations.
it continued to function,
though everything about it was wrong.
an arrogant parade of limping assassins.
all their precious bullets wasted on the dead.
time she assumed was deaf.
a student of all the words it couldn't hear.
the simple truth much more complicated
than she had anticipated.
choice she noticed
was a fragile construct.
its straw house being the first to collapse.
when the wolf comes to call.
time yawned.
disenchanted with our simplicity.
napping on her wrinkled sheets.
unaware of all the monsters lurking below.
she took a taste as its buttons fell away.
tempted by the curious anatomy of choices.
she whispered her desires in distance's ear.
knowing it wasn't listening.
worn by lingering questions.
undressed by strangers.
sorting her math with the decimals she'd misplaced.
the value of skin fluctuating like the dubious commodity is it.
the tables she thought were finished turning still had other plans.
places she confessed had always been her weakness.
the where too aggressive. the when too sharp.
and the why always scribbling with broken pencils.
time she lamented always impressed her.
their lengthy arguments much more thrilling than their outcomes.
and all the ugly intersections where we almost met. selling coincidence and calling it fate.
life's stubborn hourglass swallowing the last of her dwindling sand.
everything is a fraction. or so she thought.
as she dared the end to prove her wrong.
feeble gods in the fist of change. promising entry to heaven through hell's unlatched gate.
love she had always assumed was a prefection equation. a confession written in skin.
meant to convict her of a crime that she'd never committed.
her box was empty. or so she thought. since she couldn't see what it contained.
the buttons are soft on time's weary keyboard.
all our dogged epiphanies summarily dismissed.no more wilted adjectives to give us pause.
the chains are limp on truth's withered engine.
as we barrel forward. blindfolded and adamant.
the last of our claws sold to the sheep.
trust is a vile consent. built on borrowed beginnings.
we spend our choices on temporary things.
because temporary is what we've always been.