Threading the Needle Loudly

talk to the grey. argue with the yellow. all the colors have their voices. all the moments have their architects. in the sober of when. in the high of maybe. we run our razors over tomorrow's skin and wait for the vein to open.

it's just a bridge. a way over the terminal abyss. it's just a path. a route from the beginning to the end. as if such markers can indicate where we are.

tell the rain it need not fall. gravity will gladly compensate. tell the sun it need not rise. one day is more than enough.

there is no epiphany in the caliber of our flesh. the light flickers. we awaken. to the tremors of our expectation. petals on the flower. succumbing to the wind. raindrops on the glass. selling the storm in discarded wishes.

like dominoes, the years tumble. inertia is all we have as the distance between us deepens.

we're just cardboard limbs and paper hearts.

when the rain decides to fall.

we're helpless.