Subatomic

I was only talking to myself. Afraid to say it out loud. Camping out in my skin. Thinking the whole time about being somewhere else again. I was reading silently. Because that's always how I read him. Turning pages in the dark. Feeling for the impressions of the letters.

People are like long division. I like to do it short. Upside down. Discarding the remainders.

I always listened, but it was hard to hear. A bark is a bark no matter what it's trying to say. The world spills in, no matter your barricades. Pieces of finger. Bits of faces. A docile cancer that begins in the head and suddenly erupts into every extremity. The comfort of touch slowly poisoning our ample purgatory.

The problem isn't that we're waiting for heaven, but that it's not waiting for us.

It's not the dying that's a problem. It's how long it takes.

People are time. In its most basic state. The thrust of space pressing down hard. On tender atoms. Undecided. The grin of the quark. The frown of the electron. The spatial dances of the tiny elements that makes us feel so large.

And so small.