Biographies In Red

Pretty once were the dead things. Now upon my soiled sheets. Her nervous fingers the catapult. For too many boulders. We can't sleep together. But we can disappear side by side. Silence in fallow tremors. Ruptures as our bodies collide.

Red. Clouds wither the storm. Blue sands convince the ocean. To give the bottle back. I steal back the note inside it. So that no one will know. My desire. Tracing the map of his grin. A nervous pencil and onion skin paper. More observer than artist. The shapes lie to my fingers. The colors are each one a treason. As we fumble with the black and white of who we have become.

I chased the pigeons off the ledge. That I might see those heights. That descent without the benefit of wings. Not that I couldn't fly. It just required so many drugs. And they were growing tired of me.

We fiddled with the gauge. As the corridors pretended to open up. Long passages. Like ignorant epilogues. Turned our monsters against us. I didn't try to, but I still managed. To find. The broken handles on the buckets. The ghosts wailing over them. The sky falling. Impatiently. Me trying to, but unable to grab it.

He didn't say anything, Atlas shrugged. The world moved. I stumbled and fell off.

It wasn't far.