The Fiction of Touch

We counted the hours as our time machine chewed on our surrender. 

the textures of grief too brittle to hold. 

we carved our maps in despair's cement. arrogantly trespassing in each other's skins.

lost in a borrowed paradise. 

the years drew their pictures in our flesh. 

I was wrong. 

scolded by all the sour epiphanies passion overlooks. 

I pulled the blade from my neck and waited.

for the predators to smell the blood.