Embalming

Time is agile and stubborn. Underwear still smelling of transient debates with touch. It says it knows, but I don't think it does. How brief the moments are that divide then and now. Trial and error. Myself and her. A little girl. Some fatty discharge hidden under an old scar. The faint hint of puke in a forgotten taste of someone else.

Calm morticians painting the smirk on dead faces. In desperate scribbles I find too familiar.

Epitomes like bubble gum. Expanding. And bursting all over our faces. Synonyms of change negotiating a treaty with dead men.

You can always talk to a ghost. It will always listen, but it'll never say what you want to hear.