Thorns. It was all thorns, this thing of a hand, making its way, swirling across the small of my back. We are here again. In this working of the way, trying to make some sense out of our elicited absurdity; Names. We are both made of them. Some take a toll in our bodies and mostly turn themselves, a parting wave, or a hinge that does not work β closes all stalls, the thumping on the walls, and then some indifferent silence penetrates the two of us: aberration. We are here again, trapped inside this console. Our tabulated quotients do not rear the best of our equations. Now there is distance in such short space that could hold no less than a matchflame, or a little hummingbird, prying open, the leaf that turns with us in the ground. The rapture of freedom does not enclose me. Like a shuddering blade of grass bowing down to the perpetrating rain, I am within armβs reach with the stones that refuse to give out answers. We have burned the bramble. Our buds, of no use. The wind blows, and that is it. No solace. Taking time to sojourn deep into something we both know as a standstill, a petrified tree at the bend of the road, or this undeniable thing that asks for a different name: love, something torn.