Nearsighted

i wait for the thunder. weak storms. flaunt their noise. the inherent weakness. shared by clouds and touch. myopic time machines. ply their subtiies with a passive grace. the distance between tragedy and euphoria is measured in blinks. and the words i've yet to speak.

she tears the moat from the castle. in a fury of conundrums. she rides the lightning bolt. as heaven approaches. it's sagging bridges tempting her to cross. if it ends she knows not where. if it began. that's for the future to decide. this skin. a product. of too many long equations. i'll never solve.

i spend my nights pretending to recognize the numbers. as they construct their pathways. tracing the angels that i find on the heads of pins. each hour a fraction in the mythical continuum of that machines we imagine could move us.

the rain falls. the sun quickly forgets. how we saw. the things that were there. when the darkness was paused.

i'll take my stumble. i prefer to fall.

Given these choices.