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Already I adore our various furnishings. Already I am familiar with your wit. Should our bearings be a single inch to the left, I would trip over, no doubt, mistaking the edge of a misaligned event—that is how we met. But—can feel it out without looking—can trust it in the dark. Not having a choice in the matter, and that’s less noble than honesty, I’m simply compelled to admit.
Then there’s the nonphysical extension of space between our worlds. From your priming inhale I can approximate what sort of sentence beckons arriving. Your considering, pleasurable hum draws my breath out flat against the tabletop. I’ll peel off our words. You could get into the groove. We don’t listen to music, but; you look so good under it.
Take us outside: it’s always about to rain. Coming down now. It hailed after it snowed, the reticent ground yielded us these hard little pellets. A seed I’d plant for one more minute than we get. Your swaying gaze loosened across the room pathlike ribbon, knotting in the interstice.
Somehow, your body bends beneath my fingernail’s blunt overhang. There are things you want above sleep, but there are things you need more than that. Your hair doesn’t pull back, but sweat contours the loose brushstrokes to a fair outline. So then I see you, all at once.
Our chronic clock sums to the numerological equivalent of a nominative determinate. Simultaneous. We wobbled, with your damn heavy legs, and my clumsy tongue—between the oasis and the ferns, the ferns and the mud, the mud and the sky; as all origins go: the mud and the sky. I brace myself, drinking from my palms at an ever inefficient rate. You just watch, yeah. I curve around and my feet move quicker and kick up sand flecking my shins. I want your bruise, your name. Your shape. In as much color as you’d take.
Then there’s the nonphysical extension of space between our worlds. From your priming inhale I can approximate what sort of sentence beckons arriving. Your considering, pleasurable hum draws my breath out flat against the tabletop. I’ll peel off our words. You could get into the groove. We don’t listen to music, but; you look so good under it.
Take us outside: it’s always about to rain. Coming down now. It hailed after it snowed, the reticent ground yielded us these hard little pellets. A seed I’d plant for one more minute than we get. Your swaying gaze loosened across the room pathlike ribbon, knotting in the interstice.
Somehow, your body bends beneath my fingernail’s blunt overhang. There are things you want above sleep, but there are things you need more than that. Your hair doesn’t pull back, but sweat contours the loose brushstrokes to a fair outline. So then I see you, all at once.
Our chronic clock sums to the numerological equivalent of a nominative determinate. Simultaneous. We wobbled, with your damn heavy legs, and my clumsy tongue—between the oasis and the ferns, the ferns and the mud, the mud and the sky; as all origins go: the mud and the sky. I brace myself, drinking from my palms at an ever inefficient rate. You just watch, yeah. I curve around and my feet move quicker and kick up sand flecking my shins. I want your bruise, your name. Your shape. In as much color as you’d take.
