The Glass In Her Stare

With a calm look on her face she asked the door its motivation for being so willing to open and to close. With wrecking balls in every blink she posited to the darkness that it feared the light. Since change is the devil behind every blessing.

During certain months it's okay to let the weather inside. Spreading bouts of freedom one vice at a time. The relentless sandpaper of sex smoothing all the rough edges in reality.

Talking to imaginary gods with bubble gum between every word. Peanut butter stuck to the roof of her theory. The algebra of circumstance. The probability of hope. As cold as any equation she's ever solved.

The key in her walk. Long skirt echoing her strut. The diesel in her pause. A crowded engine of races never run. The lock in her stare. Weighted eyelashes translating the language of her hands.

Together we counted the links on the food chain. The echelon of evolution in bottles of rum. Putting everything aside to find the pattern in the chaos.

All to prove it was possible. To love what you would never want.

To want what you could never love.