shallow cuts. the emtpy sober. the edge listens quietly. a stranger in our bed. all veins and arithmetic as the words wait for a reason.
the miles chase us. our debt accumulating with every footstep. life isn’t given. we have to take it.
the hours tremble. a feast of skin. we run. convinced of a destination that doesn’t exist.
we bargain with our bodies. as our appetite grows. we tell ourselves it’s hunger. but we know it’s greed.
the bone is rigid. the skin is tender. these are the truths that define our weaknesses and our strengths.
we’re so much smaller than we think we are. and getting smaller everyday.
we’re orange. like what we remember. full of folly and indifference. dull blades gnawing on the thicker edges. we’re humbled by the colors. as life erupts all around us. both powerful and delicate.
the numbers fluctuate. as we look out from our precipice. wondering what happened to our wings.
our vision wrinkles and tears. as we try to see. but it’s blindness that truly suits us.
these empty skins betray us. their weight too much to bear.
the sharp trill of tomorrow shrieks inside our grasp. all that power forfeit. because we can’t make a fist.
the blade falters. the storm changes course. we’re fractions. tears in the wall.
we run. we pretend we can. with wings on our feet and lead on our backs. we chase those moments that make it worthwile.
we flirt with the edge of the paper. our pen drained of its ink. telling our stories in pennies and scraped knees. watching the rain. as it swallows the world. leaving us only the remains.
i can’t see. i never could. until i stopped looking.
it’s always over. it’s always beginning. that’s what life is.
i go too far. i always have. the miles devour me. i want them to.
the beginning is quiet. but the end is loud. that’s how it always is.
we’re not close. we never are. we don’t want to be.
the distance swells and our gait quickens. muscles resolve to the pace. we’re running away, but we’re still going somewhere.
the glass breaks as we press on the window. we don’t know exactly what’s in there. but we know it’s ours to take.
the ribbon tears on the box. we look inside. everything is gone.
obvious ends capitulate. memory’s soft claws grip, but never pierce the vein.
time’s plague is vociferous. the dialogue stagnates. small cuts blister.
we embrace the sickness. ripe with the corner’s patience. and the blade’s temper.
drowning in the geometry of touch. planes. lines, angles. all of them too eager to forget.
we do the math. with the numbers that remain. stealing our stories from the wind. as it presses through the broken needles we call medicine.
our monsters look so much like us. we forget we’re separate.
memory stuttered. crumbling in on itself. a patchwork of faces I’ve touched, but never felt.
the distance consumes us. as we pretend to know where we’re going. the puzzles pieces bend and break. as we force the picture into place.
we go too far. that is our nature. we need to run. to conquer the miles. to find ourselves in the absense of everything else.
it’s only time. the bridge we cross. the gulf that swallows us.
we’re just a machine. the flawed mechanics of bone and blood. propel us further. deeper into the darkness.
we were walking. wet dolls arguing with the ocean. we were selling. whatever would cover the cost of hope. umbrellas in the wind. letting the phone ring.
the storm came and went before we had time to realize we had drowned.
we dropped our pennies into the well and listened for the moment of impact. all empty pockets and dirty shoes. as anticipation peeled away our skin.
we’re not monsters, but we resemble them. we’re blind with answers. deaf with questions.
our bodies blunt. though our touch is razors. we want to bleed, but for all the wrong reasons.
several lifetimes later we had found the start. all dry butterflies and worms in the sun.
we pretended to know. because it was expected of us. we spent our stories on the briefest of moments. but they were entirely worth it.
our eyes measured the ladder. while our skin measured the fall.
the choices were loud. as we struck the wind. our pace all road and sinew as we sprinted toward the end. content to fail.
the rain drew its pictures. as i tossed the breadcrumbs I hoped would find us.
life is both a privilege and and a burden.
the pages saturate with words. no one listens.