Broken Kites, Knotted Strings

White she tells him is not a color. But rather a convergence. All of them. The moments arrive in various spectacles and we are buried under their messes.

The years don't know. What we do. That they die as we live. Corpses committed to memory. The chasms of this foul flesh their only afterlife. That's why there are ghosts.

Because thinning skin and failing livers are hardly heaven. Even our mistakes deserve better.

That's why we pretend such machines can be built. To save us from ourselves.

It's not a color. It's all of them. And the whiter it gets the more I see. The black below.

It's something so simple. I've only just now learned. We've never had time. It has always owned us.