On the brink of falling between the crack in the floor boards and reaching the sky, we are grasping at thin air and all we are getting are handfuls of crumbling ceilings spotted with nail holes from the people who moved out of our bodies long ago. I saw something different in him, like the windows he placed all over himself were actually walls, and all the trees and skylines that lay outside were just his excess skin.He could light a match arch at the click of his teeth and pull you into the flames without you ever feelings that sense of losing control.Thats the thing about houses made from skin and bone,they never seem to last long.Our very lungs trapped inside walls and walls of insulation. He stocked up our cabinets with cooking grease but houses don't quiver much like the lips and fingers of our past selves when fear seemed to dips its toes into our very skin.Who knew our own bones had boiling points?
"At least a body covered in ashes is a warm one."
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Ephemera
Poetrye·phem·er·a əˈfem(ə)rə/ noun things that exist or are used or enjoyed for only a short time. items of collectible memorabilia, typically written or printed ones, that were originally expected to have only short-term usefulness or popularity.
