February 13, 2015

Sorry, I Think

Our bones are tied together by electromagnetic pulse. The lines of binary code string between my eyelids in a 1600 frame rate. Heavy breathing comes from my lungs and it is organic. My pores feed on the oxygen. I am bigger than the Earth. The moon and stars are but a side step in the universe of time. Transcriptions float, nearly invisible, across my eyes, swimming in fluids that I forgot existed.

“I’m not mad,” you say.  

“But you’re scowling,” I reply.

And then our bones separate as you walk into the other room. Our eyes melt in solitary confinement and thumps echo off the wall with each gasp for air. My bones pulse in a dimming flame, all FPS dwindling to below 1000. Oxygen atoms fight to become improbable calculations among radio waves and WiFi. Even souls woven with electromagnetic string tend to stretch after use. We're still organic and it still fits.