3

attaching to the moon is serious business. an idea gets even closer, it's bad, it will hurt when it fails. even the moon cannot predict the future (but is good at guessing). the bathroom floor is sticky with little circles, they remind me i'm full of numbers and the numbers have to move around, numbers swap candy for pain, this goes horribly wrong. am i just a box with portals inside? am i going somewhere or is the going already in me? the fine thread of my knowing has knots i might never solve, and the holiday is standing over me smiling about how well i can be easy. no one's told me what they will do next and then their muscle memory cramps me along. i suddenly do wish to be hollow but i can't even find the moonlight from inside this machine, and anyway i still have to walk shaking into the midday, to yank the day's heart to the front of its chest to get the car to go.
                        i am lighter than i was, with a precise and heavy center
                                           whose lightness is a damage reassessment that won't mean much in the empty future. the future is holey, things fall out of it, and you can yell about this anytime you like. gawd tries my arms again, it's this game we play now. it doesn't matter how hungry i am when i become the machine: i am not the machine. i mine for softness, it is my inner claw game. where my softness goes is wherever you are, nothing mechanical about it. where my softness lands i can't point out on a map. when i'm soft with you the secret swells. what i thought would happen is i would pick you up off the timeline's sucking whir, just enough light left for the both of us, but no one wins at the game of arms.