the road swallowed her.
step by step.
in sunken victories.
and stilted surrenders.

she always wore the future
in its tightest clothes.
every crevice grinning.
as those hungry zippers bit down.

it's obvious she whispered.
letting the distance continue to grow.
every intersection stutteering.
as she pretended to know where she was going. 

it's a parody of some kind. 

to think that we can control
the myriad of trees falling

in our forest unheard.

skin makes so many promises
that we can never hope to keep. 
the curious convictions of 
animals loosed from their cages. 

our claws are red for a reason.
the road continues because
there are more places we must go. 

time yawned.
disenchanted with our simplicity.

it fell asleep in her bed.
napping on her wrinkled sheets.
unaware of all the monsters lurking below.

she took a taste as its buttons fell away.
tempted by the curious anatomy of choices.

she whispered her desires in distance's ear.
knowing it wasn't listening.

worn by lingering questions.
undressed by strangers.
sorting her math with the decimals she'd misplaced.

the value of skin fluctuating like the dubious commodity is it.
the tables she thought were finished turning still had other plans.

places she confessed had always been her weakness.

the where too aggressive. the when too sharp.

and the why always scribbling with broken pencils. 

time she lamented always impressed her.

their lengthy arguments much more thrilling than their outcomes. 

and all the ugly intersections where we almost met. selling coincidence and calling it fate. 

life's stubborn hourglass swallowing the last of her dwindling sand. 

everything is a fraction. or so she thought. 

as she dared the end to prove her wrong. 

feeble gods in the fist of change. promising entry to heaven through hell's unlatched gate. 

love she had always assumed was a prefection equation. a confession  written in skin. 

meant to convict her of a crime that she'd never committed. 

her box was empty. or so she thought. since she couldn't see what it contained. 

the road is hungry as we stumble over its gaping jaw.
the hunt is a curious beast.
all dressed up in our empty skins.

time is a feral creature. all growls and claws.
we wander. feathers in our vacuums.
watching everything around us fall.

running because that's what we've always done.
running because where we're going is so impatient. 

the distance is a perfect measure.
the  temerity of beginning to end.
solves us all, eventually. 

the road is uneven as we discover our pace.
pins and needles in the cold extremities of ambition.

we run.
because theres's always something more to chase.  

dirty little footprints soil their path.

casual narrators bite their tongues.

sold again to the numbers between the text. 

time yawns. a cordial surrender.

change lurches forward. swarmed by memory's hornets. 

touch stutters. fallen apples tug at the curtain. a very particular grief. 

frail bones in heavy skins. wear their consent in borrowed pockets and absent buttons.

thoughtlessly betrayed by the furious economy of love. 

the distance presses its weight into our shame. 

a long series of broken paths. poisoned by their destination.

discarded masks with our faces sewn inside them. 

missing eyes and severed lips in their rocking chairs.

puliing on all the wrong zippers. 

time's tired apostles crawl into their soiled beds.

ragged souvenirs in an ongoing apocalypse.

the edge of the world always there in their throats.

as they chew on the sun.

gossamer skin in the whisper of a bruise.

the years pace in their sunken cages.

a broken animal.

we wear the distance. in brutal numbers.

letting the math choke on us.

the truth is a corrosive.

a barking stage full of tangled puppets.

we say it's enough.

because we wish it was.

we run up the hill. so sure of ourselves. 

puppets on time's stiff strings.

chewing on all the knots

that we've created.


eventually, we tumble down it. 

negotiating the truth at every bruise. 

snakes with paper fangs

selling their expired venoms. 

time and time again,

we reach the apex. 

only to discover that

the bucket we carry is full of holes. 

little spiders in their seldom webs. wait patiently for visitors.

lazy clouds tease the sun. having already spent all their best storms.

the hunt is often passive. no obvious aggression. still just as effective.

the decimal moves. depending on our aim.

little numbers crawl under our skin. deciding who we will become.

we curate our equations. distorted by perception.

distance is betrayed by speed. anxious atoms collide in a spectacular delusion.

the little spider collects her victims. 

and her web is empty again. 

there are no ceilings in the lies that we tell.

we drown under the infinite capacity of flesh.

cartoon martyrs in crayon tomes. 


there are no floors under our feet. 

just the din of perpetuity gripping our throats. 


the truth is immense.

a tangled fracture of oblivion. 

in a room without windows.


we play.

and are played with.

toys without rules. 


time bites down hard. 

devouring our fragile smiles.


we chase the distance. 

tempted by its generous frowns. 


we bargain with the abyss. 

because we know,

that gravity always wins. 

the  distance yawned.
as we collected its rope. 

the silence tied its knots.
and we scoffed at the noose. 

the edge knew us too well.
in the foul way that only desperation does. 

there were monsters under our bed.
more scared of us than we were of them. 

the truth licked its lips.
while we cut out its tongue.

we were poison to each other.
but instead of killing us,
it only made us immune. 

time smothered us in new flesh,  
but underneath,
those old wounds still persist.

the broken shelf said nothing new. spun by the slender scratches in gravity's smile. 

worn by the edges. undressed by the distance. 

we chased the corners. charmed by time's delicate lies. 

the jagged road content to listen. as we shouted at the stones. 

we were simple thieves. with soft guns. frantically bargaining with shame's auditors 

for one more chance to prove. that in spite of everything we'd lost. we still had something left to lose. 

the dirty walls were ample consent. as the world tumbled in. 

touch the tortoise. consequence the hare. 

the dead were restless as we leaned into the curve. 

the remaining light burned her hand. as she began to count the empty rooms. 

no names by which to call them. in the infinite conflagration of time.
all told. the damage is the least of our devastation.

the numbers frantically fumble to keep count. as the fissures continuously erupt in our math.
bits of skin in all the wrong places. tease the lingering intersections.

no familiar faces to wear their skeletons. as choice chokes on the last of its wagers.
the simplest truths answer the hardest questions.

the luxury of touch is an impossible expense. now that all our words have expired. 
silence drives its wedges under our tongues. 

no soiled sheets upon which to cultivate our shame. all severed limbs discarded. 
all broken dolls tucked into their beds. 

the apothecary of deceit a familiar stranger. as time betrays the remains of our metaphors. 

no more temporary villains in generous couches. some monsters are permanent. 

the window sighed. resolute against the scrape of the world. 

change stutters. a long series of cordial villains.

each one counting the dust accumulating on her doorstep. 

as if to prove what had never been true. 

the silence buzzed. all wings and acid. 

letting us know that we'd been stung. 

the box was quite small. though its contents were immense. 

we'd stopped counting a long time ago. 

but what was inside never did.