Everything should have slowed down. Every touch, every light should have been its own imprint. As if, when the time does finally arrive, it waits along side. As if when the truth is told it could do anything but leave a mark. Instead it is again the ebon in-between separating breaths, wading in where-ever the flesh runs shallow. My nature as age and pressure, my nature leaving prints on everything seen.
It never matters whether things are right. It never matters how hard it is falling apart. These parts were machined to feel the friction. These pieces are meant to write our ruin. The attention payed to accident, the dismal dismissal of the course as it is improvised. Lean in close, and the inevitable speak its mind. Lean in close, and the heat will shiver from your flesh.
This gratitude can only hold each error. This blessing can only be an echo of some lucky break. The room is cool and dark, and riven with claws. The door is cloistered in dust and light. I slow instead, while all reason passes. Heart and bone cling to the strings, building blisters from the only proof given for souls.
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