Touching forearms can cause a rash.
At least, it did. Whatever occurred, allergy.
Tanto faz, já aconteceu lá atrás.
Mas o lembrar - ô pra lembrar

May such thoughts exist only in passing,
amanhecendo pra acabar aqui assim
Recordings and so much distance make
a vibrant view. Sinto falta da minha cidade.

Let it be an itch on my forearms.
Allow me to feel touch, to both see and experience
beauty however it so permits.
Não dá pra experimentar tanto assim.

Redemption is not supposed to come as we’d like.
Tô permitido pra fazer isso no outro idioma?
Lembro da coceira e I wish you to be the pain
in my kneecaps.

Critique is a dear friend

beginning of an itch,
a compulsion to recall
wallowing in reminiscence
it flows in one eye
and out the other

hesitant to attach names
but willing to start
for the sake of a source caring enough
to warrant breaching a feigned barrier

the detachment atomizes
so decided against
as it was with a left palm in the sun
with a wallflower valentine
and a song sung at night

I feel the care - I really do
How it feels as growing pains
To grace myself with a belief
One that I so quickly apostatisize
Savor the reverence of it all
Color negatives of care,
visible only for a moment - up to the light.

It’s in the phantoms of your arms -
the path and the smoke you leave behind
just outside my focal length
that fund the false peace I tended to

My legs can’t replicate the steps
the adrenaline is still there,
dancing closely as to syncopate a pulse
just to melt the wax and feel warmth
imagining that something would change.

How cruel your compassion became
how damning your gentle touch
completely enrapturing me in memory
looks like we’re both trying to quit something

Bathing in surface tension,
streams of skin left flush in slumber.
Perhaps it’s like being a bird,
trading fragility for flight
and something to fly for

Saddening yet is the absence
that by pulse alone cannot be warranted
for what? By what bounds?
Fingernails and fabrics,
clothing and crossroads,
songs and ***,
that are so wonderful and so
well pieced together. Okay.

Swords and wristwatches -
how dissonant and foolish
- or as it convinces so.
Of which a passing kindness sows
what will reap a morose kind of harvest

Saddening yet again is the absence,
that is because it cannot be the lack that
is forbidden by design.
It is the sadness as taboo
as waiting for you to show up

Within each and every breath
wisps of it all drench alleles
swiftly, surgically.

Every photon, widening iris
consuming every angle
insatiable and unrepentant

Not anything but desire
coating a soul in what
a matte finish?

Fingertips around a waist,
leaning with closed eyes,
breath upon cold ears

Just another beat
another beat
another beat

Chanting so violently
it cannot be craved any more
any more than one can be loved

It percolates through these lungs when breathing in
Never to be that way, oh my god
never to be

All those little bits of oxygen entering the bloodstream
yearning for that sacred resting of the ear
the joy is felt at a distance

Pass through the chambers and fuel the body
eyes and smiles and more eyes again
an inverse person, a void - cannot reach out

Energy to the tendons, the muscles, all of it
new pulse allows the outstretching of hands
never to be that way, oh my god

an inverse person, a void - trying to reach out
let the hand suspend itself, let it galvanize,
let it rust; rust. Never to be