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 language and starve; such is its receptivity to ours.)

Took another step, wound around everything: euphoria on the backburner, the end is our destiny. Sensitivity to touch also deadly: doesn’t it see it draining, helplessly, doesn’t it know deception is its most convincing intimacy, its 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; how could I have ever lost your signal? Telepathically you answer everything, translate everything, 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? wasn’t that step by step the step we paved? wasn’t that believing?

(The temperature rises, heats up 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.)


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