Peripheral Stones

we hit the ground, though we thought we were still falling. perhaps in some way, we still were.

plastic arms and torsos in time's hollow graveyard.

the colors. they simmer and churn. just below the flesh. the angry chemistry of life erupting from inside fading silhouettes.

the moments scorch. all heat and fascination. the unrepentant rebellion of emotion and biology. raw fingers reaching for an ember in a blizzard.

we fall quietly. unnoticed. crippled by the memory of flight.

the years a rabid kaleidoscope of friction and blood.  that simultaneously creates and destroys us.

a long corridor of time machines. each one more bruised than the last.

sometimes gravity lies to us. we think we're weightless. even as we're being crushed.