she's little more than bone
these days
faded smiles and ash
folding in on herself
on her hands
storybook skeletons
that know nothing more
than
just
keep on going
repetition
mass.and.muscle.memories


the feel of skin to skin
something other than [hollow]
other than
an empty stare
habituals
doused
by loss of meaning

she
does not
know contentment
anymore

because

love
let
her
fall

[again]

…

I wonder
if her hands
would shatter
like a ice sculptures hit with a sledge hammer
or porcelain
cast against the wall
bouncing meaninglessly
to the floor
torn
from it's previous state of being
now scattered
at the mercy of the forces of (human) nature
a bottle at sea
cradled in the tides of empty waters and empty thoughts
careening past plankton
entwining in the seaweed
trapped and twisted

I wonder

if she's even there at all.