The Cosmology of Want

Oblong boxes. ripe with goodbyes. nothing inside them.

the simple colors of waiting. the goes red. the stops colorless. eyes on the terminal. obvious connections fuming with subtext. the dispatch. the portal. the sweep of gravity as it scoops us up. small sticks speaking softly and carrying us.

paper faces to draw upon. soiled mirrors. broken capsules. as the drug interrupts forgetting. with its perfect knots. in strings much too long. with their needles selling stitches that only lead to more holes. the welcome poisons of time and distance try her on. it doesn't need to fit. just be loose enough to get lost in.

Pencil marks. the ambivalent loyalty of failing senses. you think you can smell it. the foul singe of no longer wanting what could be. you think you can taste it. an empty sweetness in the thunder of her kiss. you think you can hear it. the impervious silence. that steals her from the moment. you think you can see it.

the approaching darkness.

but you're wrong.

it's already here.