the bridge shivered as she crossed it. the path lingered on that delicate connection. a soundless song effortlessly repeating. regardless of whether or not anyone was listening.
her shame fluctuating. her animosity tentative. arrogant puzzle pieces jockeying for the center. while the edges remained unsolved.
the heat spinning her. in every direction. the miles careless as they took her. only empty chambers as she pulled the trigger. glorious lies by which to paint her pictures.
the miles unfurled. worn, but still eager. the sting of epiphany delivering its poison.
splinters of sun broke my path. a fever of bridges led us too far. we wander. toting our empty buckets. waiting for it to rain again.
we look to the stars. children full of shallow wishes. forgetting they’re already dead.
the heat bears down. its weight rousing the animal inside of us. we stumble over our fury. awakened by flesh’s treason. we touch. the execution of want erupting. consuming all that we thought we were.
the details shimmer into focus. hungry memories pretend to know who we are. the choices simmer. eventually coming to a boil. so we tip the pot. to find out what remains.
we were earnest. we welcomed the fight, but circumstance still defeated us.
I came upon the wonder of where. In curious sweat and anxious invitation. distance spent in eyelashes and blisters. as the miles become us.
It was always dark. Until it wasn’t. That is the nature of change. Fickle. Harsh. Vaguely corrupt.
It’s not far. It’s just distant. The differences are subtle. Until they’re not.
It came. It went. The stubborn pendulum of life refusing to stop. We were empty boxes on time’s doorstep. Waiting for anything to fill the space.
We were raindrops on the horizon. Chasing a disappearing sun.
Telling our stories in too many commas. And the lingering punctuation of various lovers.
I was always myself. Until I wasn’t.
we listened. the distance growing louder. small questions. harboring enormous answers. we fed the colors. a steady diet of sweat and desperation. setting their places at our empty table. feeding them our arrogance and apathy. every corner too loud. all the diseases much too quiet.
we’re only ghosts. conduits for the things we’ve let die. we’re only haunting the choices that have found their way too deep inside. we’re in the margins. collecting graves in marrow and skin.
we’re only grazing the atmosphere. ladders falling. swallowing the end one puncture at a time. saying it’s lost because we don’t know where to look for it.
wake the thunder. coax the storm. it’s ours to covet. manipulating the inclines and the corners. driven by exhaustion.
you know my name. my face. the creases in my skin. you know all the grave concerns of my flesh. nothing more.
our hunger takes us away from the meat. deeper into the bone. truth’s marrow is dense. a swamp that drags us under.
the answers eclipse the questions. we’re chasing the war. as it stumbles on without us. we’re stealing our murders from love’s rocking chair.
we’re choices. our bodies board games.
the obvious bruises spreading. the smallest of wounds still vomiting blood.
the blade is dull, but cuts just the same.
the miles unfurl in a fury of ecstasy. life erupts from the mouth of gravity. the incline stiffens. the slope is stubborn, but hardly impossible.
it’s quiet. the undermining. they’re soft. the footsteps of thieves.
time speculates. an ocean of choices. a parody of means. moments swell and crash like waves. our little row boats capsized. our minor treasures washed out to sea.
where we go. where we are taken. our choices gnawing on the thin curtain that separates. we’re animals. in circumstance’s sturdy cages. we’re predators tangled in hope’s velvet ropes. we’re grievously earnest. dancing to a song no one is playing.
the hours spoil in silence. the ubiquitous conundrum of sweet pain and sour choices. the wind withers against our grief. pinholes in the fever of our flesh. singed wicks in the flame of our discontent.
the miles never falter. there are always enough. even as the sky bends down to kiss the horizon. petals on a dying flower. negotiating with the rain.
one more moment. maybe less. hope measured in fractions. love sorted and shelved under hard covers on wrinkled pages.
the epiphany is as empty as the road that led to it. the lie punctuates the truth beneath it. we’re all thieves. terrified by progress.