Savage Grace

small cuts tempt the infection. vague bruises wear the blood.

there are only the words that slipped between desire and touch. the tenuous bridges that failed to connect action and intent.

there's barely the choke of arithmetic. as it sways muscle and bone. a maze of numbers more alive in habit than in function. the graves we wear thin and transparent, but no less weighted.

the wind jabs and scratches. the miles pursue us. flesh devours time. weakness consumes choices.

the places take us. even as we imagine we've taken them. the moments chew. gnaw. tearing the meat away until only the bone is left.

such is our pulse as it throbs against the silence. such is the journey. as the distance overcomes.