the numbers were soft. crevices in the shy oblivion that tabulates our losses.
we spent the math on barren hallways stained with doors that never opened.
a din of scattered choices. biting on the wind.
the end always remembers us. bereft of the seldom edges. intimacy evolves. a throbbing catalyst.
no words. just the skeleton of touch. as it slouches toward the remains of our skin.
the windows say our names. though they’re not ours to keep.
the distance chokes on our ambivalence. and all the shallow holes we’ve dug.
the thief steals what he can. the assassin prepares his blade.
we tumble down hills much too steep. our empty buckets heavier than they’ve ever been.
we sit. our backs to the world. in a pool of blood.
still picking at every scab.
