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.
the edge overlooked her. dominant calculations. submissive results. she grabbed her hansel and headed for the oven. candy in her eyes and panic on her heels.
too many dead witches. not enough live ones. too many dark forests for children to get lost in.
the rain is obvious she assumed. a tactical position between the sun and the moon. a tattered signpost on the long road to not knowing where we’re going. the oblique poetry of lost sifting through the quiet. as we hold our breath. and wait. for the waiting to expire.
the little wolves. and the big ones. heavy with the hunt. the straw houses and the brick ones. empty just the same. all the little piglets long since eaten.
the horizon teases feast. but hunger is all the road provides.
she welcomed the spectacle. thumbs on razors. corneas bruised. the whelp of apathy puzzling through its sinking mazes. the crumble of skin as it seeks the center. the filthy template of loyalty and shame.
festering colors. in the shallow of their depths. murky puddles in the storm’s soiled linens.
proximity betrays. chemistry is the assassin.
we simmer. stalled in our grief. a puddle in a hurricane.
the miles surrendered. her hostages at last. the war was won. everything else was lost.
the truth approached cautiously. in ruby slippers. with a heart made of tin. i kept looking, but there was no place left.
all corners used, i followed the curves. taking inventory of every raindrop. as the storm devoured us.
there’s no measure. just the natural combustion of hope and shame. the emotional curriculum of flesh. and our failure to master it.
there’s no reason other than us. that irrational constant. that unsolvable equation.
the world sighed and the summer ended. a fire extinguished.
embers still burning.
the bulb went out. exposing a hesitant darkness.
the ladder bent. gravity snickered. still we managed to taste those bullets.
hours later. miles spent. we were exhausted.
we quietly settled in to our coffins and waited for the funeral to commence.
too quiet she suspected. as the rain refused to fall. all the stubborn corners. dense with want. as the end erupted. all pennies and faded lipstick.
the siren sighed. the heavy circumference of doubt. an empty canvas waiting to be soiled.
she wore the panic in long zippers and loose sequins. a lengthy dance of sweat and suspicion. louder still than memory would admit.
the scent of choice as foul as it’s ever been.
the day was loud. a shattered mirror frantically collecting the shards. the math was easy. simple subtraction.
the curtain closed. the stage went dark. last words lingering. pierced fruit turning brown.
the smell of perfection spoiling in the gap. blurry pencil marks tracing the topology in the creases of our bodies. seldom levers pressing on the fulcrum of our past.
there are no corners. there is only the delicate curvature of our want. as we stumble toward tomorrow on hungry palms. the swelling distance our only gauge. as choice narrows to a sliver. and epiphany erupts in betrayal.