how close we were. the future levied upon tilting flesh. gravity’s urgent architects. building on hollow foundations.
the sweet bouquet of broken skin. peddling its stories in turbulent ifs and arrogant whens.
it’s never time, until it is. the callous merchants of circumstance wagering our choices. in clenching fists. in vacant frictions. in the dubious futures of the ghosts that linger in long empty beds.
the distance lies. the miles pretend. it’s always close. it never is.
the long way home took her.
the darker corners grinned. the edges moaned.
all her yellow suns used up. all her lightning bolts spent.
arbitrary epiphanies of blood and bone. the jagged mosaic of touch. greater than the sum of its pieces. the pinnacle of nothing.
the lumber of tomorrow. the sprint of the past.
locked doors. open windows. we’re taming fire with explosives.
lost between intersections. found in the distance.
the margins define us. in innocuous hiccups and cancerous chokes.
the empty friction of want. always measuring us.
these labored lies spend their colors in tangled manipulations. many small knots in impossibly thin ropes.
the yellow is in the beginning. a beautiful fever of complications. deep cuts in soft tissue. plenty of blood.
time sours us. the years are little knives. that cut us open. turn us soft like rotting fruit.
the distance chokes. gravity’s fist suffocating. the fall is sudden. we shatter. drowning in our own fragments.
the puzzle comes into focus. the edges harden. the middle collapses.
i almost let it hurt, but i caught myself.
the surface forfeits. a thunder of loss. the needle enters softly. loose scabs negotiate with touch. the earnest callous. the stalwart scar. the dwindling certainty of vacant prophets.
the distant when. the intrepid appetite. of our fragile chaos.
reluctant thieves wear the edge. in failing scabs and sharp cuts.
we shrink. smaller still. as the pendulum accuses. we wait. needles collapsing. seams undone.
the day escaped. in trickles of blood and peeling skin. the distance roared. the miles wept. as we took each hour. another dose of foul vaccine. as we revel in the ecstasy of our sickness.
the rain sharpened its pencils. the pictures drew us. dark lines brace for the edge. the cloak of choice growing heavy.
friction defeated flesh. gravity grinned. as the bottom swallowed us.
life lasted only a moment. and then we were ghosts.
flesh gives way. bone concedes. we’re fragile. more so as we search. eyes wide. unable to see.
blood finds the surface. hungry for freedom.
choice subsumes. missing skin. open wounds.
bodies wagered in curious reveries. the grin of the edge. as it pulls us from the depths. sparse bridges officiate our panic.
the spiral. even as the fall breaks us. the enduring pulse. of finding home.
soft assassins play their murders. in thin threads. we are miniscule. we are gigantic.
the math spoils. as the rain persists. little dolls with their legs chewed off.
the infinite maps under our skin. our prisons and our escape.
the envy of contrition. in lead balloons and broken bridges.
the light switch. the ladder. the bullet. the nervous ambassaors of our grief.
the storm lingers. the destruction labors. time’s sour kiss betrays us all.
we’re only alive by our proximity to the edge.