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the numbness touched her. a bony skeleton thoughtlessly animating her skin. the scrape of the hours pointing her in a different direction.

fingerprints. panicked by perpetuity.

spending the dark like crumbling coins. gambling on the faintest win.

the hours confetti. pieces falling everywhere.

it was the end of the world for so long that she was no longer interested.

she listened loudly, though the world remained deaf.

the spectacle was charming. all ravenous thoughts and empty skin.

the soft squall of the want lingering. small, hot embers.  destroying the purpose of the calm.

time spinning madly on curious integers of grief.

no change. except in the symmetry. the strangle of choice seizing upon each breath. with the putrid hunger of the overfed and the famished.

gravity spent. her empty purse still on my hip. as the fall peddles its familiar treasons.

the metrics of skin betrayed her. the capacity of influence fluctuates with the weight of discretion.

soft corners in the distance. swallow the remnants of our loss. grief’s slender needle guides the poison. as we struggle to remember who we are.

the miles observed her. much closer than she thought she was. to that elusive center. where the skin is shed and the bone exposed.

the truth was light. lighter than it had ever been. a series of footsteps following an unfamiliar path. a lingering traffic light at a busy intersection.

it was huge. but somehow she swallowed the hole. choking it down like some derelict medicine.

the sickness remained. but at last she was well again.

shallow cuts wear the wind. the distance is loud. so loud, but she can’t hear it.

the broken truth draws its maps. the ugly metaphor bites its lip. she doesn’t need to count the steps to know how lost they are.

the grief plays its slope. spinning. stirring. finding its weight.

in all the little thieves that pretend to know. what’s below the skin.

colors emerge. angles erupt. in the uneven frost that gathers as the winter tentatively opens its fist.

it’s gone. a whisper in love with a scream.

she’s not surprised that it didn’t take her with it.

the light changed. the road spun. it was more conflict than war. more math than flesh. all the typical casualties of trust.

the variable faltered. too soft in its skeleton. the scabs released as the flesh grew back.

the distance trembled in the shadow of our grief. time inadequate medicine.

the allure of the sickness. always a consideration.

there was no real beginning. nor any definitive end. we simply spent each other. like so many coins. until there was nothing left.

sideways found its path inside. the pain faded, but its message didn’t.

dents in the soil. fidgeting with the angles. the dubious geometry of flesh. the incredulous arithmetic of bone and blood.

never came and went. a long chain of faces. punctuated by spasms of regret.

it’s the story that tells us. it’s the distance that deals the cards. as we lay our bets. all her flesh a murder. every embrace an indictment.

the blisters are pillows. the scars are cement. gravity stabs at the parcels the moments have left.

a maze of empty boxes. not worth solving.

the tin man discovers his heart. not within, but belonging to someone else.

the wizard clutches his curtain. but the deception is still exposed.

little pebbles mar her words. as she bites down on the stones.

it grew in her abdomen. an empty snake. baring its fangs. it spilled from her voice. a lazy storm. hanging in the air heavy and moist. chasing down her spine in hollow sacrifices.

it’s confection she lamented. with a fleeting grin. cream and sugar swelling our heads. and we gorge. until the sweetness turns bitter.

rag dolls with torn limbs. and missing button eyes. negotiating the slender threads that might make us whole again.

it blossomed in her flesh. the whispering deceit of circumstance. the shouting truth of everything else.

the ladder climbed her more than she it. still not high enough she sighed. as she overtook the edge.

img_20170104_114522 the clock simmers. thickening the hours that become us.

the silence wretches. sick with the adequate.

there is only the slighest slope. fragments of choices. dull pencils. drawing in circles. the wind. against the glass. a long sigh. telling stories in crippling silence.

the words lapsing against the trajectory of so many ghosts. imtimacy  gauging its velocity by so much inertia.

i see the movement. i glimpse their worlds. not understanding where i am.

transaparent moments stumbling over seldom fences. cloth hearts teasing the cold. as the seams keep coming open.

it wasn’t hard. or at least, that’s what i told myself. it was a lie worth its price. it was a hunger tha remained. belonged there. deep inside.

we pursued the nothing. we circled the edges. threatening to fall at every turn.

truth rising sharply. like rain in the morning. quiclky evaporating. or sun in the evening. disappearing behind the horizon.

the treason of perspective. eventually everything looks small.

the distance blisters. swelling with blood and sweat. and all the intangibles that cut our outlines from the shapes we gather.

the bridge shifts. struggling to span the widening gap.

i’d say it mattered, if i thought it did. but i long since gave up on that.

i can say it hurts. because it does. but the drowning is the least of it. the stalwart cliff still my weakness.

only the abyss is real. it’s choice that pretends. only the silence is embrace. anything else is fiction.

the hours falter. stumbling over when to leave.

i keep climbing the stairs. i keep ringing the bell. still no one’s there to let me in.

img_20161227_110538perspective simmers. with calloused fingers and a fragile pen. it draws everything too close or too distant.

the hours like rotting wood. all choices turned to ashes.

the sour grin of winter as the summer is hunted. devoured. a soft song that aches in silence. a broken stick beating the wind.

the spoils of intimacy more debt than profit.

the arrogance of flesh.all sulfur and humility. in the crassness of lingering loyalties.

gravel in every breath. context gloats on the narrow angles.

as if we were ever young enough to believe in happiness.

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