Clues Unbecoming

She had her lye. She was dissolving her flowers. As all ghosts are wont to do. Given their peripatetic cause. The garden grows in wide footprints. The fist opens. Empty as ever.

Working the wall. In deliberate massages. She pauses to explain. The missing bricks. It's never complete. There's always a fissure. It's not now. We surf the numbers. On rigid flesh. Collaring the lion with the thinnest of leashes.

It's okay. Because I have low expectations.

She had her lye. Sick little stories groping for description in fractured adjectives. She had her fingers. To tease the lever by. In urgent stabs she demanded. To know why. It takes so long. To find. What was always there.

Just another answer he didn't have.