Sad Pythagoras

Cold cream. On wilting eyelids. No colors left to convince. Dirty limbs. To dance this late. Forking tongues. Drawing pictures in the darkness. The novelty of skin. Proving irrelevant. As the Earth stumbles toward the sun. In long essay questions.

Young women. On withering shins. The world hates us she wailed. As she removed her eyelids. Sight. Some tattered demon. Too good for hell. Too cruel for heaven. Pulls me into this journey.

I don't want to be saved.

Leave me. To suffer. This tireless inferno. We call progress.

Sell me men. Remotely detonated bombs. Time in the hypotenuse. Right angles multiply. And square. Easy enough to determine the distance. And the angle at which they intersect.

There are people in empty houses. There is no one in crowded streets. The darkness tells us so. Zero times zero. Aristotle in his underwear. Deducing his pants.

The world at my throat. Six billion Galileo's all insisting the sun is closer than it appears. You're only cold because your math is wrong.

The desert. In long strands. The hair falling from her head. The ocean bald. In thorough repetition. In cold contracts. With vacant houses. All the lights still on inside them.

I know what you want. Everything. I know what you have. Nothing. I know where we failed. And how.

Each other. In the calculations.