The flattening of this moment. 
Hesitation pulls by and the years fill this second. 
The asphalt opened by the recent pattering burns our noses. 
In this coffin of olfactory citizenship, the town's halls are burnt. 

I am asked by the labels of stewardship how my knot is. 
My response multiple times heavies is the same, it is a question. 

My mind, behind the glass left behind in your watching, our gaze ritualized. 
But now forgotten, our love, now torn, our complete identity hidden, pulled away,set alone as the flu pushes it's way towards iur meals. 

Your intestines will **** down. In irritation, you open yourself for infection. 
The ants begin their flood. 
Bereft this skyscraper. 
And with them, my years of servitude, past, future and present. 
My future of, stripped away. 

Visions of my hands clasping the aluminum and moving the volume closer to its max. 

And this is gone as you begin to bubble. 
Inprisoned in your pearl green coffin. 

Your ears balloon and your eyes sink further into your skull. 
The air is not completely escaped the vessel grounding you. And transporting your cell's cessation onto more fertile ground. 

And I have lost you completely. 
I have questioned your love for me and I burn now. 
Spittle falls to my Oxford as I ponder my future.  

To move you as sworn. 
I. 
To say I love you. 
To move forward and forget all. 

To recognize the coal's glow. 
And to cover them, forgetting their resonance when combined. 

I will push this lie further into my future. 

You. 
Radiating tan. 
Covered with the sliver of silk. 
Red with the corpses of lives more exotic when crushed and heated. 

Did something happen? Was the cause your own?
Or a drunks from long before?
A shard of glass from the struggle of some prior Saturday?

I can't stop drinking. 
I dress in blacks and browns. 

And greys. 

The terrible muddled cover of a color neither masking nor portraying my innocence, my shame. 

Much hotter, I am told. 
The depths are. Ur I got away all concepts of torture. 
A new anguish from the ashes. 
Without absolution. 

Convicted that the cog's smoothness is a feather in the wind. 
I step into Time's antiquated machine and perform the rituals to spark its engine. 

The combustion, neither burns clean. Or soiled. 
It tells no story of the future I will hold. 
My rings burn in its power and my teeth chatter in the when-after. 

Hello mother. 
Brother. 
Lover. 

You. 
You who are bones. 
You who is the primordial soup. 
With ever hatching infant eyes. 

The most difficult part of the cold is not knowing what is dry or what is wet. 

Be it these eyes or this heart of mine. 

I transform and hide no longer. 
When my answer is given, the answer is;

"Which?"

Ourselves or the wounds she'd obtain?