Fever Blisters

the barrel. empty as it were. pitched to the fall. everything inside it. laboring under the rule of a diligent cowardice. liberated on the fickle whims of choice.

we would dither in the thankless sunshine. each moment spoiling for the next to arrive. we would scratch. with rusty nails as our pens. our initials into the cement. still small enough to see the world as big.

and then it wasn't.

but there was no liar to hate. just the cold treason of perception. as it shifted through the gears in our heads. i was dumbfounded by how quickly we went. from friends to strangers.

the wrinkle of her eyelids as they move over the ghosts in her thoughts. tumbling betrayals. made of bone and flesh. ladders made of clay. lay against shattered windows. and she climbs. to reach. the calm hysteria of those empty rooms. where shadows still speak loud enough that she can hear them promising. it will change.

we built a strong bridge out of those delicate matchsticks. for a time, it even, took us across. but we failed to consider. the consequences of the spark.