Touch, a sensitivity of touch, too fragile to think: waves of seduction emanate from the center tug, every sound gives its word to the impossible, you craft pleasure stationary, freedom happens to you (the sensual bloom of a powerlessness transforms awkwardness into light waves, an illusoriness that gives grace back to all of your uncanny fidget).
You wait, you look again: more shapes and shadows, curves and curls. The unseen eye-contact of spirits raises feeling to beauty: you perceive, reckless with caution, the threshold of an unknown future, in which nothing needs to happen and you do not need to breathe. (This slow-drip red infinity is your dream, the name of a light angle yet to star. I blackhole into my own and starve; such is its receptivity to ours.)
Took another step, wound around everything: euphoria on the backburner, the end our destiny. Sensitivity to touch also deadly: doesn’t it see it draining, helplessly, doesn’t it know deception is its most convincing intimacy, no-hope its favorite fall? The evil of chance, a step out of bounds―isn’t that where you found your great infinity? Isn’t that where you, coffin-cozy, breathe fur? Isn’t that what the gods called poetry?
Impossibles: shoulder skin, language, color. You are the heart of its offering; so how could I have lost your signal? Telepathically, you answer everything, translate, toast to our great loss. Wasn’t that, that face, the great visitation? ―A blankness that stayed, wondrously, as you looked away: wasn’t that all along the sunset we prayed, the step by step we paved? Wasn’t that believing?
(The temperature rises, heats into phantom friendliness: a request for what no one could say or give.)
(You say it, you give it, and that’s the end: heartbeats, sinking under, to trust touch and to leave in the feel of it.)