the betrayal is always within. waiting to be discovered. 

cordial thieves gnaw on the bones.

the poison fluctuates between assassin and salvation. 

the curious arithmetic of exposed flesh. 

gravity idles. tender threads negotiating with deepening wounds.  

time consents. its voice simmering just below a boil. 

the dubious contract between want and circumstance. 

the distance sharpens its claws. just hungry enough to taste our skin.

faceless dolls scratching at shattered mirrors. 

places find us bound to choices long expired. 

feathers in a vacuum swaying on broken pendulums.

turn and persuade the void. loud corners arguing with silent walls. 

confessions in stolen smiles. touch's mercurial time machine.

the sour of absent folds. fading creases. missing poisons.

differential atoms. execute the changes. 

as if we are only a scale. measuring the weight of strangers.

stop and count the footsteps. the angles change. the depth is constant.

the light stumbles through our grief. suffocated by the clarity of distance. 

gravity yawns. unimpressed by our calculations.

pause and caress the edge. 

it's been waiting so patiently.

 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.

 times plays its usual songs. pulling on all the dusty curtains we've left closed for too long.

the sharper exits settle their mileage. with broken zippers and empty pockets. 

she wears her name in tumbling confessions. listening for colors in the grey. 

skin swells with friction. all the absent words that have betrayed us. shed their scabs. 

weakening monsters rattle our beds. polishing their conditional cages. 

time spends itself on fractions of flesh. chewing on lingering debts. 

and we keep counting. 

long after there's nothing left. 

resolute is the pantomime. open skin sells itself in loose crumbs.

the humble touch of impotent choices. all missing keys and broken locks.

absolute is the choke of the bridge. as it crosses through us.

the numbers panic. the equation sighs. knowing we're solving for loss.

stern are the doorways as we search for a way inside. 

the walls stumble over the windows. the rooms swell with our absence.

places we know that have forgotten us.

it's only time's faulty medicine. making us weak.

it's only the monsters under our bed.

still growling.

close enough it was. or had been. the difference negligible.

the world all fever and shivers. like neglected children.

the atoms slipped outside their equilibrium. heavy oars in a boat without an anchor.

told were the tales. spent was the skin. frail like paper. narrow like memory.


we gathered. our cotton eyes. and sunken fists. vehemently arguing with the math.

insisting upon the truth. even as it betrayed our every edge.

until only the textures remained. cold accusations. and sealed boxes.

heavy with both the living and the dead.


the light shone in too many places. 

daring us to see. 

how dark it is.

 severed arteries spill their blood into our hands.

the taste of swollen gods still fresh in our throats.

their eyes like crushed pennies.

their smiles sharper than the truth.

we're always too young, until we're too old.


the hours stumble.

heavy with sinking atoms.

desperate to explode.


time gathers its weapons.

as we wander through

our lingering wars. 


our skin growing louder. 

as every touch becomes chaos.

colder still flees the auditor. broken beads and slithered flesh. 

tantamount to the many coffins that lie ahead.

absent is the heavy yoke of time. as we are torn toward our simmering oblivion.

scolded in scattered lies. spent too soon.

change chokes on our ample arrogance.

lilting saviors stare into the sun. and peddle their blindness.

expectation tangles its knots.

so we gather our empty skins,

gravity bites down so hard.

that we let it swallow us.

sneak a tear. swipe a grin. 

chase the ugly. wear the panic.

twisting eyes pretend to see.

the edges bend to greet us. 

as we slouch toward our shame.

flesh knows, but seldom speaks. 

of all the ways that we betray it.

drops of blood paint their pictures.

the sweet sigh of temptation taints our lungs.

every choice stiffened by so many thieves.

not the least of which, are under our skin.

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.

 broken pencils still draw their pictures. split atoms accelerate their division. 

little droplets of why on the curtain of our skin. leave their stains. 

sharp collars around the throat of time. cut into fickle flesh. 

a deep wound. infected with all the things we almost had. 

change wears her sharply. with a slippery grin. that crumbles when no one is looking. 

she writes her name in the darkness. stroking the phantoms as they assemble their doorways. 

lazy machines in the calamity of choice. suffocate on the velocity of our panic. 

shallow dresses on tiny skeletons. search for the buttons hidden in the folds. 

telling their stories in discarded flesh. 

a catastrophe of touch. 

that savors every bruise.

 we wear the colors of consent. in all their jagged pieces. 

tasting our shame in lingering isotopes. spent in the pangs of change.

the numbers taste our blood. the sweet and sour of ambivalence keeps count. 
as our wagers overcome us.

the machine is a constant. a universe unto itself residing within. 
lurching forward. and crawling back.

crippled by the treacherous ambitions of flesh.

we try on each stranger. desperate for one that fits. 

time the only arbiter as we wriggle out from under each other's skin. 

we summon what remains of our voice. searching for words where none matter. 

gathering our demons as we approach the door to heaven.

we search for the difference between the name we've chosen and the ones that have chosen us.

our journey measured equally in shallow puddles and torrential downpours.

the ripe fruit quickly becomes treason when left unpicked. this is the pendulum that marks our lives.

the poison remains sealed inside the box. a void until someone dares to look inside.

time bites its lip. selling its betrayal for a much higher profit than its convictions.

the distance chokes on itself. as she stumbles past its consent.

its incredulous cure still much too weak.

as her sickness cinches its knots. 

we search for the difference between where we are and where we've been. 

piglets in their straw houses. 

unaware of the wolf within. 

sometimes change stumbles over itself. a clumsy dictator in the lingering aristocracy of want.

the threshold is too complacent. as our monsters destroy the locks.

sometimes we are free only because everything is lost.

the door is still wide open. because we're waiting for the bodies to be removed.

sometimes we are only small pieces. in a puzzle of consent. 

as we wonder which villains belong in our bed.  

sometimes the distance measures itself. because we've forgotten where we started from. 

wandering through the forest in our little red hoods. 

searching for just the right wolves. 

the floods come and go. 
fickle mercenaries in an unconscious war. 
the tepid catastrophes of eager flesh. 

the bridges are collapsed. 
as bridges tend to do in storms. 
especially when we take them for granted. 

the distance is a curious thief. 
a long string of paper dolls. 
severed at their wrists. 

the story has its own agenda
mostly candy houses  
and unattended ovens. 

even as the pages dwindle, 
we dutifully keep count
of all those discarded skins.

we know we'll wear them again
in our next fairy tale. 

loyal beasts gather their grins.
the perpetual fever of touch,
digs sweetly in their hardened bones.

time accumulates its debts,
in chafing skin
and ugly distractions.

curious monsters,
chew on the empty pockets
in abandoned rooms.

the distance is sour
as it coats our lips.
in raw betrayal.

we bite into the fruit,
even as our skin is ripe
with so many treasons. 

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. 

dirty little footprints soil their path.

casual narrators bite their tongues.

sold again to the numbers between the text. 

time yawns. a cordial surrender.

change lurches forward. swarmed by memory's hornets. 

touch stutters. fallen apples tug at the curtain. a very particular grief. 

frail bones in heavy skins. wear their consent in borrowed pockets and absent buttons.

thoughtlessly betrayed by the furious economy of love. 

the distance presses its weight into our shame. 

a long series of broken paths. poisoned by their destination.

discarded masks with our faces sewn inside them. 

missing eyes and severed lips in their rocking chairs.

puliing on all the wrong zippers. 

there are no ceilings in the lies that we tell.

we drown under the infinite capacity of flesh.

cartoon martyrs in crayon tomes. 


there are no floors under our feet. 

just the din of perpetuity gripping our throats. 


the truth is immense.

a tangled fracture of oblivion. 

in a room without windows.


we play.

and are played with.

toys without rules. 


time bites down hard. 

devouring our fragile smiles.


we chase the distance. 

tempted by its generous frowns. 


we bargain with the abyss. 

because we know,

that gravity always wins.