Antimatter

It's different now. I am. Different. Life. Pieces of brick. Crumbling. Still enough to walk upon. Fall down. Quietly. Scrape knees already skinned. No injuries. Just muscle visible. Still.

Stubborn bones. Arguing with the bandage. Useless cycles. Heal. Tear again. Until only your own words know who you are.

It would be naive to say I've ever known anyone other than myself. It would be weakness to admit how often I've wanted to.

Know them.

Be known by.

Matter. At all. After the night is over.

Matter. What is it?

Just pieces of oblivion endlessly making us smaller. Matter. Fragments of forever whoring the lie of touch.

That I could feel. The bony shape of trust. The morbid density of lust. Or repair the the balloon before it pops.

Matter.

My molecules invading his.

Like we were already back there. And the future couldn't stop us. Because everything had already happened.