time procrastinated. lingering on the folds in her gown. a kingdom of uncircumcised doubt. her voice all parenthesis. every thought an aside. nothing real. except the rabid punctuation between flesh and how. her body a thesaurus of when.
wooden bridges over steep highways. the uneasy embrace of nostalgia. as the traffic cuts below. narrow arteries. too much blood.
it was unfortunate. but not unexpected. the race was over. nobody had won.
she crawls out of her colors. tucks herself inside the grey.
she whispers in gravity’s ear. as she approaches the edge.
she kisses time on the cheek. and waits. for the pendulum to choke.