onetwistedpoet

When the shards of silvered glass settle on the ground at our feet, our trained response to the stimulus is to examine our image in them. The plurality of polyhedrons share a similar propensity for reflection but we're  too transparent and it's apparent that our apparitions have been cultivated from something insubstantial. There's the clothes but like all postmodern emperors we're most comfortable shielded by lies from inquiring eyes; our naked intentions an exposé on the excellent job we've done industrializing individuality. So no, they may reflect ideas but they don't return any light, they're black holes as far as the enquiring eyes

And maybe what I called loving you was just never opening the car door, letting inevitability puddle at our intertwined feet like the speeding tickets, train tickets, concert tickets, detritus of a past that made our silences so rich while the water rose and we ignored the pull even as the truth tried to make us cold we fought it by pressing our bodies together until we couldn't feel where you ended and i began, neither one of us wanted to be the first to breathe or open our eyes so we were never quite sure when we realized we were both alone, numbly following those thermodynamic laws and consequence to our own parallel but e