Words are the hands of thoughts;
Fingertips flow
Where she clenches her eyes
Sinking teeth
In lower lip
Prison bars to sighs
Anchored to liberty
Looming like a storm
in the distance

My skin can hear your colors
From the other end
Of happiness

But the line is folding in a loop
Closing in a circle
And the end is the beginning

Time is tesselating
Unto itself
But we have not the senses

There is no loss
Just continuation
Into the unknown

Relativity delays
The arrival of awareness
Consciousness is slow to form

The cooling of the mold
Takes a great deal more
Hence, the procrastination

Inert and habitual;
Words taking root
In everything

My end and your beginning
Collided into a freshly manifesting
Iteration of existence

The bud becomes
The fruit
A new cycle