by the tips of my fingers and squared edge of your thumb,
hairs matt and clipped
through torn tracks in my elbows and knees, freshly formed and reformed.
The new flesh unfurls and smiles away,
reveals a mouth of rose and scarlet
soft, slick to the air and quiet, not screaming.
Listening, receiving, from its place of exposure.
Hands feeling their way through heavy curtain.
We wait, pausing in breath
as connective tissues startle into profound motion –
a multitude of nebulous crashing consciousness.
You fall and wrap the length of your arms around my waist, hurtling us both towards and almost nothingness. A floor between floors, without clear lines or staked edges. We tumble and roll in infant togetherness, clinging to the confidence of gravity, to the squeeze and drum of hearts under dimmed red.
outside inside Hz Hz Hz 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, …__drums and sticks and stones and bones
Questions might start a dialogue. Before starting to tell something, I find the questions that ask me to tell something. But then I realize than it is not only about the question, and it might be more about who we are, and what we give. Hereby I would like to…