Collapsing the Fold

time grunts. a complacent suicide of turbines and combustion.

her thoughts give way. a fragile staircase. leading to rooms she's only glimpsed. the cold arithmetic of expectation boasting its mass. and the eager velocity of skin. all too willing to become the accelerant.

the moment sways. a casual pendulum. promising every direction. committing to none.

we spend our youth imagining a soft world. devoid of the fevers that sicken us with both desire and grief.

when we are well again. when we are older. and all those corners have become hard. we find ourselves longing for the those ungrateful diseases.

it receives no name. it bears no mark. it only is as any memory must be. an empty plate. the remaining crumbs still a temptation.