Obsolete Time Machines

The future she assumes is expressed in words not said. Awkward grabs punctuated by too many drugs. Time she contends is a surface. And travelling it is mandatory. The warm composite of skin on the jagged terrain of the hours. Solidifies the dominion of touch. The silence comes readily. Amid the loud voices in her head. Deaf lips trace the path of screaming fingers.

I was that close once. In failed contraptions not yet labelled. In heavy oceans sick with sand. We looked for the shells.

Do you hear. The waves crashing? As you hold the hard skin up to your head. Do you test the echo. Rub the tarnished grin for traces of when. Dark still mattered. And distance could still be calculated.

She assumes the past in absolutes. Trains violently following their tracks. It's easy to travel if you're willing to be shaken. She finds the future on the empty shelves. She had been saving for something better.