Lost Founds

Counting. As if time actually passes. On these islands we call freedom. To steal. What we desire. From fresh skin. Chewed up dolls discarded in basements. The rouge on their plastic cheeks. Never fades. Until the lights go dark again.

The stirrups on her hips. Begging me to dig my spurs in. The saddle on her back. Needing to be tightened.

I have my devices. The choice the algorithms pretend to offer. Stubborn locks on sinking ships. We wait to drown. In each other. As the flesh rises. And the words diminish.

Just the virus. The vaccine of lust. In the cavities assigned this body The calm abyss that she wears so well. Knowing how much I want to be its victim.

Oh. To outsmart the clock. With these fragments of long division. That have come so near to proving we can go back. To the island.