Our hands never did fit perfectly.
Geometry was never that kind to me.
So if our touching skin was never a memory
Why am I afraid to lose it?
Years past between the words we speak.
Our rhetoric; incoherent at best.
I've always wanted to stop time.
But not like this. Not like this.
The realization I made that winter night
Has become increasingly clear with age:
Reality is a fleeting mistress and I have become her victim.
Did the sun forget to rise or do I refuse to acknowledge it?
There are spiders crawling through my veins at night
Coaxing naive butterflies into infinite spanning webs.
I have become obsessed with the beauty of this death.