Fashion Sense

A fist full of dirt in a heavy hand. Premature clay. Fiddling under long fingernails. Expecting rain. So much dogma in my dreams. I can't go to sleep without first making myself forget. Why sleep isn't an ally anymore. Can't tell the story until I've been told by it. At least a hundred times.

It's not life. It's just words. Waiting to happen.

It wasn't love. It wasn't sex. It was just pleasure working its faulty algorithms.

Life is static content. Memory is dynamic. A rabid doberman to guard the perimeter of every moment.

Until frailty finally relents. And that thin layer of denim which kept us apart is faded enough.

That we can see through it.

And I finally walk away. Content in the sound of the corduroy choking on my thighs.