Icarus Burning; Untitled 12

Our lives are created and maintained by machines who's moving parts are the mathematical representations of our failed ambitions.
You signed your work when you left; your name as a perfect scar left on my heart.
She left behind her the unmistakable scent of nuclear fuel and the after-image of a setting nova.
And I will leave my dance card open so we can watch the apocalypse together in style.
She lived on a diet of salt and left-over night time, I was comprised of shards of glass and shattered hope.
There was a flight of stairs going up in her one story house; she pretended it didn't exist until one of the children never came back down.
A knife, distaste, and the look on your face.