Resembling Gods

She had lost a scab reaching toward the ceiling of man. The blood gave fast chase to the hours at her cheeks. Counting backwards from zero to never. In tiny explosions.

No skin. Just sinew clinging to near undressed bone. No villains. Just dark crumbles of flesh eager to bleed. A big breath. And then waiting. So long waiting. To breathe again.

The world in scratches. On the dirty glass. Spoils of touch miscount the years. The hours. The minutes. All stick figures. Missing eyes. Fingers. Toes. All drawn in pencil. And fading too fast.

The question comes first in answers. Demanding a logic. The machine is built. Which takes us back. It can't have happened. We weren't there.

The window yawns. Heavy with lives we'll never live. The scab returns to where it had never been. Patterns on the flesh say otherwise. While blood quietly solves the algebra.

No remainders. This is not division.

Just when. As stubborn as ever.