the way it falls

collar bones cold

chills tearing at my spine

human necessity, memory

of touch long erased.

my mouth a portal,

sound only. lips,

retired rose petals.

moments contracting

upon themselves

pointless gateway

rusted chains marking

an empty garden

ground turned and cursed

age rushing and darkening the permanence of regret.

hollow echos limbering up posts

legs shortened by time

expectation of movement between

shortsighted and extinct

wanderlust long extinguished

boggy eyes with water rims

too shallow to swim

far too empty to drown

salty bottomed and

largely misunderstood

curved ground between

here and there, and the earth

contracts. mind’s eye drawing closed

and the rivulets pour, the faucet closed

only a dripping remains.

Originally published at on June 25, 2016.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.