Weightless

Seasons at her back. The weather in long trenchcoats. Loosely covering her. Derisively letting in the cold. She breathes in long division. Thinks in fractions. Sleeps on her knees. Walks on her toes. There are too many places still to see and nowhere left to go.

She writes the numbers down. Naming them. Silly names. Only a lonely child would use. Beautiful things turned ugly by mere perception. Porcupines making love. Heavy stones to smother the fire we've abandoned.

She chases the darkness. Unable to keep pace. She writes her name down in the dirt. And waits for the calm of the wind to make it untrue. The pendulum in her fingers. Crossing out each moment before it has happened. The hours in her fist building. For years.

Until they are too heavy for her to hold.