gravel.

so i think i'm right cold comfort. knowing the knife is coming doesn't stop the bleeding out. ironic that a communicator is so confined inside his skin. i want to say it my mouth so full of shame and spit the only sound gravel.

broken bone set crooked

so there it is all over again

the biting reminder of what never happened

it flashes so bright the electrical spark that numbs my head

and- sonofabitch- it came from the source.

romantic optimism, that nasty evil bitch,

makes me reconsider over and over if it meant something.

i dissuade myself and reconsider over and more

of course not, but what if?

the same circle that started this up again

i'm thinking about things that i shouldn't

i'm considering things that i shouldn't

will i ever know; would the shouldn'ts even lead me to know anyway?

i doubt it, but there it goes all over again-

what if it would?

these paths that brushed close have split

that ink has dried, that broken bone set crooked

never as strong as it used to be.

dilution.