When we finally fall, it will be fast and sure.

Taste mint on your hand, left from stumbling over that dead tree and into that pile of flavor. Since I am close and out of focus, close your eyes and imagine me perfect. I strain against reciprocation. You have a hangnail on your middle finger, I can feel it pull on the inside of my t-shirt when you touch me. You don't touch me any more. You wait, instead, for me to touch you, and bent over, facing away, never anything but accepting. This is a point of honor, though I'm honorless and lifeless and simply less then a point; your dimentions create geometries. Euclid would have stood silent, a form too perfect for math created before bifurcation trees grew.

When we fall . . .

I am jealous of your brilliance. Tears well up from the sad beauty you contain, scintillating points of hope in a night sky, where clouds broke from a flatness only Abbot could imagine. Can you see the Milky Way between the clouds and lighning? Eternity in a single glance. You pollute the skys with your radience, where we can't see the constellations any more.

Can you sit on the side of my bed? So that when I come close I can say it was the slope, like the diagrams of gravities in textbook. I fear obliteration The worthless and priceless destory themselves, and a little is gone from me every day. If I were infinitely worthless, oh, that would be something, but I'm not, I only edge coser to nothing while you hardly note my decay, saying words that close me up, define me, in the matter of moments.

I am thinking of leaving you--

Thusly. We are civillians.