Origins

Down. Disparate decimals coerce the deaf oasis. Thumbs. Zippers burn her lips. As they open and close. So often. Bottoms. Loud equations culminate in gods furious with us for their impotence. The spider under the porch has no web. He waits. In the dark. For his victims to come to him.

Away. From the repetition of touch. The fraud of skin. That still contends we are not alone. In this kaleidoscope of temptations. Fractured shapes folding into one another. Just like all the lies I never told them. While we push all the pieces into the empty spaces where they won't fit.

There in a pair of numbers. The formula becomes apparent. Doubt. In healthy doses. Manipulates each equation. Until every answer is zero.

Then. She was all herself. And no one had touched her except to ask if she could ever be someone. Colors. Aspiring to fall as she did. Because. There gravity never mattered.

When. Donors. With fangs and flesh. Fuss with the amplitude. Aggravate the quarks. As they fuck. Forming molecules at random. Creating us. A million times in a minute. Reality is a symptom of dying.

Time fumbles with its crutches. Up a lifetime of stairs. Dirty doorknobs spoil to life. Without windows. Without glass.

I see nothing. I am. Not there. Weightless.

Like I was. When there was only one of us.

Or at least before gravity had discovered how heavy this skin is.