Cosines

I think I missed your call. I miss many calls trying to decide when to answer.

The patterns. The flaws form them. These imperfections become our identity. Little doses of antidote slowly killing me. Lost Alices. Growing so large. Then shrinking down to nothing. Time pretending to know where I am it. A realtor selling empty spaces.

Cutting the cake into ample slabs. Of all of us. Metaphors stabbed into the paws of foxes running away from the hounds. The fiction fluctuates. In wheezes of when. I can't remember. Names. Faces. Stalled in moments sneaked away from us. By waiting. Pretending that life goes on.