there was a long rope. it took each knot so easily.
it was everything. then it was nothing.
there were small rooms. so many places that couldn't wait.
fruit that had spoiled while still on the tree.
there was a distance. miles that measured us in irrevocable ways.
little sparks dwarfed by the flames.
we peered through memory's scratched lens . determined to see what had never been.
seldom merchants of skin. strike their bargains. in tender scabs.
the capacity of lost. measured in blood and bone. empty needles left in the vein.
the pulse of distance. the heartbeat of the wind. the persistent catastrophe of trying to live.
finding the less travelled paths. being found by them. the cold arithmetic of getting there. the oblique hysteria of making our way back.
the small cuts. they're the ones that bleed the most.
the little lies. they're the ones that truly tell us.
the circles sold her. in gracious trembles and ugly rooks. the game constructed of flesh and panic. the world louder than it's ever been. the choices silent.
uneven steps drew the foundation. eager con men manipulated the cracks.
we're not friends. we never were. we're soldiers. we're corpses. in a war that someone else will ultimately win.
we don't love. we never did. we crave. we hunger. a nourishment that doesn't exist.
the corners beat their drums. Pinocchio measures his nose. truth is an enemy of happiness.
the distance accused her. a famine of when. as the timeline corrupts. the hours hunt. curious predators in a fury of impotence. crippled gods wearing the world in shreds.
pencil marks chase the edge. draw the colors against the grey. curious monsters assemble their machines. the empty autonomy of wasted lovers and paper dictators. as they negotiate the rain.
callouses form on the past. the timeline shrugs. what we were, we can never be again.
earnest predators wear the distance as loud as they can. broken bridges argue with the wind. the world in needles. the hours in thread.
the borrowed wealth of youth is spent. and we are beggars once more.
as tight as we tie the knots, still, they always comes undone.
tepid tornadoes boast their break from gravity. the sunrise scribbles like a crayon. smearing colors on the canvas her flesh pretends. all numbers. always a series. like pages. bent and barely read. the moment languishes in our stubborn apathy. all needles and thread. too loyal to ambivalent demons.
she breaks. pieces everywhere. she runs. quickly out of breath. the monsters attempting to translate lost bits of her humanity.
she says it's okay. because the scar is obedient. a little it of blood. and then it's hard again. nothing can penetrate.
the soul is all weights and measures. a series of shadows. each one divisible by the next. a contrary magician selling empty tricks.
her voice is shattered. in a frantic resolve. her love is spent. quickly and without regard. in gold watches and used condoms.
the world ends behind closed curtains. lazy ladders stroke the heights. all soil on the playground. and the foul momentum of strangers. gorging themselves on the fantasy of life.
a seldom war. a constant enemy. the stringent paradigms flesh imposes upon its mortgagees. all satire and betrayal in the most stunning of suicides.
the soft corner. the weight of the shadows as the angle's grip tightens. learning. the frequency of the void. the gentle sting of gravity. ripe with a static of falling.
the room. a kiss. a stale surrender. anxious atoms on their violent path to division.
a brief conflict. the moist of her thighs and the sere of her lips. she wanders. lured by freedom. smothered by distance.
gone too far. always. searching less than finding. the anxious roads that let her bleed. dull needles suckling an already empty vein.
the slowly opening bridges that give way to the tall boats. the quiet lies that convince us to let those strangers in. it's just the wind. stirring its cauldron of spells. it's just life commiting to the edge.
maybe the colors stutter. maybe the words stumble. all truth is the trajectory of alone divided by the velocity of skin.
we are all questions drowning in the mechanics of choice.
simple stops. in the traffic that endures us. obvious pauses. in the skin that wears these eager archers. bones break. that is what they do. when confronted with the agendas of wandering ghosts.
clouds and thunderstorms. on the edge of when. the paths of strays. like broken kisses. and little dips in the fence.
her touch is eyelashes bleeding. knowing strangers. in their other skins. wearing the void like ball gowns. dancing to the rhythm of the silence. time's beveled corners. as blunt as ever. failing to indicate any course. the sting of the remedy is far worse than the sickness.
the sober of her devotion overwhelms. fetid despots of bone and blood assemble their armies. torn jigsaw pieces tender their puzzles. in deep cuts and worn folds.
the light turns. the bridge gapes open. we yield to the inappropriate mechanics of touch.
that is our strength and our burden.
the warm winters fool her. every time. a short gasp of faces. breath more distance than journey. soft footprints the wind always erases. leaving us lost. yet content to be.
the edges whisper and spark. the mad combination of fire and darkness. the edges scream. boulders breaking free from the mountain. stones defying the heavy chorus of gravity.
the cold winters come. eventually. in stark angles that proliferate shadows. spies in her heart. revealing rooms she never knew were empty.
naming the corners. each wall another skin. the chaos of the structure. concealing the weakness of the skeleton. the merchant in her math. sells her one more chance. the seldom in her poetry. fumbles with the answers to the questions she's afraid to ask.
time flaunts its cliched cancers. blood boasts its pitiful cures.
always.
eventually.
all of us.
embrace the disease.
a quiet chair chokes down the mounting silence. a curious raindrop questions its fall. there are no replies. only the indifference that tends to strengthen weakening knots. a cold and sinewy ladder connecting the apex and the nadir. little folds in the paper. like choices shitting their pants.
the bending hour. in so many threads. the eager needle. taking more than it gives. the whispering storms are always the most destructive.
the world ends in stutters. chokes of words and stubborn glances. the story progresses. in the broken way it must. empty pockets and smiling monsters. this skin its own purgatory. this consciousness condemned to an eternity of self-awareness.
the softer bridges tending to bend. as we make the trek across. ignoring the distance when confronted with the depths.
the heavy eyes of when. weary soldiers. in this war of temptations. a stroke of math. we are at zero again. just for a moment. counting anew. the pauses. discovering life in the dimmest corners. a rumble of strangers. thieves in big grins. time snaps closed. a heavy door. a dark cellar lacking windows.
all gone again. as quickly as it came. lost. chalk in a blizzard. Shrodinger's box open. only the poison inside it.
dense partitions between then and now. long wormholes boast their knots. the lesser gravity. of thinning hope. shivers and expands. the hunger of descent blossoming.
solvent stares steal the dark away from itself. in gropes and gasps. sharp cloaks diminish the man. in favor of a thicker ghost.
borrowed sympathies resign the kingdom. pencil mazes forfeit their walls. the only truth is in the skin. the only lies lurk below it. amateur gods weighing their thrones.
the grey glass. the delicate walls the whisper within. the soft murder that is how. the infinite suicide that is if.
the open door. the churning fog in every breath. growing. the dense yawn of why. that swallows.
the obvious wars of mice and men. the unfortunate soldiers condemned to save us.
seldom monsters slip into their claws. the easy costumes of hunger and isolation. the slope. glistens with gravity. the edge whispers of elaborate descents. the day breaks open. crwaling toward the sun. earnest matchsticks thirsty for a spark.
the glass breaks against the blades of her breath. the world churns in a swaying pendulum. a choke of colors. a stab of numbers. the distance swallows. the silence vomits. time falls aways. broken rubber bands. that once held together this mania of decisions.
the corners flaunt their ghosts. in abstract treasure maps. the moments shuffle their diseases. empty boxes generous with their hollow contents. the fever wears her. a long gown of skin and disappointment. the darkness still dances. though the music has stopped.
walls shuffle their shadows. the brave insomnia of poets and children. scours the night for a cure. not understanding the sickness is all that we are.
the obvious arithmetic. wolves drowning in sheep. the paradox of love. a simple poison. easy to swallow. impossible to digest.
the math knows her. the arithmetic of her skin. in subtle additions. and silent subtractions. the knots are cinched. frail colors bleed. soft winds confess. a tremor of choices. tilt the machine. a deluge of decisions map the darkness.
the numbers solving for us. the axis and the angle narrowed. to compensate for the weakness of gravity.
her tired needle. surrenders its stitches. the holes are too big.
breathe. chew. swallow.
the meat is all we are. the bones are just crutches.
taste. spit. choke.
the hunger is the sum of us. the suffering is the ratio.
soft tornadoes spill through her veins. life. in stabbing locks and tearing glass. no blood. just the hum of traffic. as the road scurries under foot. gentle suicides fill in their outlines. the art of dying. in mortar and brick. uneven walls submit to the wind. willing to fall.
paper skin and clay skeletons. give too much.
quiet thieves. whispers of lost. the stages of gone. come in careless folds. leave heavy marks. her wolf is shy. its fangs not yet tested. in neither the killing. nor the thick of the meat.
seldom maps trace her course. through amonia kisses. and perfumed corpses.
choices. the impotent gods that draw these paths under our skin. for the blood to follow. for the moments to get lost. hours like benign tumors. minutes to feed them the cancer. time has a face. as every monster must.
tutors in blood solving the sickness with more of the disease.
the blame becomes us. a tilting wall. leaning into the sun. a broken window. choking on the wind. freedom comes in doses. like any medicine.
wear the thunder with a shifting serendipity. just barely loud enough to hear. voices turn colors. the scrape of the wind. nudges the shadows. as the stubborn glass fights the sun.
the idle numbers. this sweating betrayal. as the world slips away. meekly interrupted. rumbles of skin. like heavy clouds. too shy to rain on us.
every monster with a new name. every corner with an angle obstuse. the motor fumbles with the mechanics of idle. motion all it knows. time is a series of nooses. we are not linear, though our skin would argue differently.
time boasts its angles. and swelling circles. the shapes cast their shadows. but nothing is tangible.
pale fevers name the faces. in a long series of shattered tiles. heavy ladders fall towards the windows. marvel at the glass.
the cool distance. the crumbling numbers. the struggle against life's impossibe math.
the future. the dismal geometry of touch. quietlly calculating the volume of an empty man.
you'll see me there, but it's someone else. a goblin imitating the mirror. a stranger trying on my skin. ignoring the wrinkles. excited by the darkness. searching for alone in a hurricane of faces. desperately remembering the quiet edge as the loud one approaches.
you'll see the tar. the dense portal of silence that sits between us. i've been searching for the map. all my life. still haven't found it. voices like blank paper. taunting me to read what was never there. i try to remember the world i knew before. the inside. all jelly and vinegar. thick and sharp stabs to the senses. and their virulent amnesia.
we'll trace the lines separately. wondering how they could ever meet. people. distant thunder. pouring rain. a preposterous flood for me to drown in. the distant echo of the margins. the hollow poetry of my disease. scratching on the glass. digging in the fire. content to burn.
you'll meet the broken doll and wonder how she walks. you'll talk to the empty chair and marvel at the shadow it casts.
simple stitches threading through the eye of time. hollow numbers. and their servant skin. choosing each madness with open fists. the trail softens. the blood dries. this body is the coffin. time is the grave.
the thief is always arguing with the machine. since distance is often measured in what's missing. the pilot never counts. though years are at stake. because time is not ours to own.
the steps go down, the same as they go up. the difference is the doorway.
the engine idles under her skin. a mechanical dragon of grinding gears and chomping pistons. the hour forfeits. beholden to the architecture of gravity.
all those invisible weights that would keep us in the dirt.
arrogrant crows mock the wind. emboldened by their beaks and feathers. flight follows strangers to the edge. with soft tipped swords that prefer words over blood. the animals. in each of them a piece of humanity. or the shadow that remains of it.
the sky bleeds white. the ground chokes on each footstep.
slender needles boast the thread of monsters and champions. stitching together the frays of winters as the cold stubbornly persists. there are no names. nor reasons fetched from the barren ridge. just heavy cloaks absent faces and the heavy eyes that would soon forget.
these bodies are only a careless gamble.
we know not where we travel. the map buried far too deep. we only know that we must go there.
poison breaths boast the world. in flat sticks and deep bruises. limber of heart and rigid of soul. distance chases with wagging tongue and heaving chest. consumed with killing. she has her numbers. postured and poised. as all ghosts tend to be. arrogant with the science of darkness.
how rich is the void. that the prey can linger. hardly hunted.
fraying voices. threaded lips. all the words stitched together. empty needles favor the bark of doubt. she pivots on her crippled moments. dancing with her hand over her mouth. and her eyes barely in her head. a strategy of mania. more surrender than resolve.
fumbling to hasten death. in weak pin pricks and pierced plastic bags. she finds the fever hidden in mirrors and solvents. mouth agape. lungs receptive. to any and all willing toxins.
she'll die today if she gets her wish.