Dusk's fire vanishes into me these days, a simmering that chills the soul, an eternal gravity of parted ways - yesterday, a lifetime ago. Those resigned retreats I have beaten, it seems, have all folded upon themselves in this samsara of half-abandoned dreams with their twisted trajectories. Words stoppering my throat return to the pen; they come out all messy and wrong in discordant collisions time and again, denatured by decrepitude. The alternating current leaping through weeks - snippets of a life without me - rampages, heedless to memories it wreaks, feeding the voltage in my brain.
I have confined you to a prime number beyond my own imagination to turn my blade on a yet time-frozen heart; but all I find carved upon the blocks I chop it into are your initials, indivisible cube roots of memory.