Silver circles black, breaks the skin,

Hangs low against the neck and cheek

Of someone else's problem

As she sits in her sphere, the blue room

With the open window wide open, rays of yellow against her sallow skin,

Painting his spinal chord in blues and greens and blacks

Against a backdrop of maroon and green, and black and yellow,

And still more blue.



The spine, his passion, 

The backdrop of rounded splotches, deep grooves and lines in a mass 

Of color and pattern, his confusion

The bits and pieces of truth and thought, his universe

He's brushed off onto her, left inside of her,

Fucking a hole in her mind, a black hole,

That he leaves her each night to fill with beauty

And feeling, and weapons (to fight her precious war).



Her distraction bomb, an explosion in her mind,

With each turning of worn metal, like clockwork,

Until the key is turned. She watches as life continues

As people make their mistakes and tell their lies

And everyone finds happiness or is hurt, one or the other.



She thinks to herself: what matters most, everything

Or nothing? It's nothing she believes in now, except the scent of acrylics

And sex on her skin. She watches as her silhoutte melts from the wall,

Slipping into the black and white glare beneath her feet

As she does her dance and makes her cells explode

Forgetting everything worth knowing, over and over,

Circle after circle.



They don't ask, don't talk about it. The faces just watch

As she lives her delusion, her dreams of greatness blocked out

By the eclipse of inevitable failure and loss. She laughs, 

Subliminal messages of what she's really feeling, things she'll never admit

Hanging in the air, raising themselves to the exosphere 

Combined with blue smoke and dead voices.



Somewhere else, the bomb goes off,

With her blurred reflection between his fingertips, in their spot,

Underneath stars and beside oceans, the smell of salt and skin around them, 

And as they kiss, the black drop melts,

Between the mesh of their enclosed fingertips, another link in the web,

She feels herself start to die again, her eyes closed, 

Forcing dreams upon herself of Japan and ballerinas, 

His prescence always lingering.



Starring from the corner of her eyes into the sunlight,

Low and crisp in the dusk,

She whispers:



"It doesn't matter."



Another lie not worth admitting

Because even her subconcious knows it's absurd.