Boxes Pouting

Her shoes untied. Bent down on the shadow. Subtle monsters on worn disguises. Running hard to the corner of the triangle. Counting the dictionaries in her fingers. The encyclopedias in her eyes. He was ready to forget. The weaker demons. Begin the argument with the stronger breed.

It's like she was ice melting. The cold bored with trying to teach us warm.

She said nothing. She said everything. As we sorted what was left of her moments. Tiny sirens always going off. Chaos in small doses.

Let the victims make their peace with these broken time lines. Let these hours decide which ghosts are worth heeding. I've already seen the future. I'm still not frightened enough.

To change.

Dead things. Long sticks for poking what appears gone. Armies of skin to defend hollow graves.

I'm just waiting. I've always been waiting.

Not knowing how to make it end.

All the angles intersecting. Too generously. Genuflecting. As geometries tend to do. Life is a massive organism and we are one tiny line in the chasm of its fingerprint.

Boxes. Pouting. Two triangles lost in the circumference of alone.