The Color of Why

the edge is never far. bound by structure and tesselation. content with variables that are seldom solved. the surface is always moving away from us. it's how we know we're getting closer. the shrug of wind. burning paper on the tongue. particles at play. the exhale of the sun. deflating. in the small colors. the dimished geometry of when. the poison in the box. all possibilities within.

the journey is hungry and soft. she's absorbed by the distance. a number in a sequence. consumed by its function.

tempted by gravity she teases the fall. lured by the current. skin all rhetoric and detours. shallow steps. take her down. to the hysterical increments that draw the maps. and the manic integers that determine where they start. where they finish.

she doesn't remember. can't claim the angles nor the math. indifferent numbers paint their crying clowns. on a crowded canvas. she swallows the distance. chokes it down. pebbles and piss. much sweeter than she expected

the variables remain. unconditional. unresolved. a hollow structure. a skeleton of matchsticks. a friction of skin. an impatient host. unwilling to breathe again until she has found the constant.  where the hysteria pauses. surrenders to the current.

stubborn capillaries. insisting a path. in an ocean of blood.