the end broke. all dust and coils. like the last bullet in a centuries old war. the paper held. though the wind was fierce. we crawled inside our stories and pretended the everything was as small as we had always felt.
we spent our bridges on condoms and mouthwash.sick. with the idea of needing anyone else.
it’s the horizon that confounds. the deceit of perspective. we can’t see anything other than ourselves. the burden of our want.
the lines run thin and frantic. as they stretch to touch tomorrow. a hopscotch of flesh. to occupy the monsters below the surface.
we’re small in gravity’s shadow. we’re lost in time’s boast.