Doppler

patterns. soldiers. clay fists. foil daggers. forward. closer.

we look behind us and the prison is open. freedom. we move forward. nearer to escape. the bars constrict. keeping us in our cages.

the nervous arithmetic of lovers. calculates the division of pleasure. each moment is a whore. flirting with the causality of contrition.

nameless gods. powerless deities. pissing out their puddles of heaven.

no eyes. just touch. to draw this room. bend the glass. to build these walls. an array of paper dolls. adrift in arteries of sober.

the edges trust. misleading equations. that we appear close. fools the tendons, but not the numbers. the skeleton is soft. to compensate for the rigid math. we move. forward and back. the repetition serving as the only constant as the variables erupt.

she scribbles in crayon. tender veins on plastic arms. like the wilt of drugs to seldom hearts. she marks in ink. heavy bones in hollow flesh. the thunder of want weak against the whisper of touch.

hours pushing forward. as the years constrict. time's bitter solvent. undoing all evidence of her progress.

so small. it hurts.