Buttery and the shade of melted umber, she shines like burnished stone. I could look for hours and not see a sliver, barely a fractional vista caught in the horizon’s shimmer. Sharp in the way of absent notes in a felonious composition, her cadences carry a piano’s punctuation. I could listen for hours and not catch a word, simply drift upon a lilting cloud of consciousness. Marshmallows soaked in cocoa, her eyes are diaphanous chocolate portals flecked with gold. I could drown in their depths and be forever quenched. Boundless and scaled to suit, her love is tailor made.
I’m not even human anymore, I’m just a composite of anxiety and idiom being dragged through a series of haggard experiences, collated daily and draped on chronology like a string of shitty pearls. I found out consciousness doesn’t exist and that was the end of it. It’s just data on slides with a discernible delay that puts the I into irrelevance. I mean, I didn’t need much convincing of something I already suspected, but it still hurt, you know. All my hope took away and replaced with determinist programming. There’s no purpose in it, I think, therefore I’m meaningless.
A Few Short Words 