The Mechanics of Us

Empty seats on the bus stare knowingly. Downtown. Searching for faces that always disappear. The sun setting on over sized wheels. As the world passes by in blurry snapshots.

She doesn't know. It might be far. It could be near. If it even exists at all. That tangled spectrum of epiphanies in which life occurs. The shadow of dying gods making a path for her. As the the red lights unravel behind.

Taking only inches. Calculating in centimeter. The breadth and the weights of failing suns tethered to her shoulder. As she stumbles on through stories never spoken. Dull knives choking on the tough meat. Left over after we've harvested the sweet of the organs.

Taking it off. A piece at a time. The shackles painted on her wrists. Running in the rain. Her hair pasted to her face. Her choices dwindling. As her prison decays.

It's ugly she says. Of the space between her legs. Empty. Dark. And wanting too much from. The farce that is lovers.