perhaps it was the water
the touch of pressuring drops
and unspoken words
the larynx blocked
perhaps by water
and hands pressing skin
perhaps moist hands
and air
triggered her tears

I noticed him
as I entered the room
I noticed how his eyes
like those of a botanist
investigated my flower
how the purple and black had spread
and raised the skin
as if my blood were tactonic plates
threatening with eruption
I noticed his smile
and I knew
how this man truly knew
these flowers
where they grew
how to obtain them
and make them bloom
I wanted my flower to bloom

The door
the door had always been locked
the door had always been locked and no key
they said
the door had always lacked a key

the sounds
the sounds came from the door
the sounds came from behind the locked door
I could tell
there was something behind that door

a voice
a voice kept calling
a voice kept calling pleading and calling
for  me
a voice kept calling for me to come downstairs

There might have been two
exchanging kisses with tequila
on torsos and tongues
salty zing
and a friend mingling
mixing and masking slight
burns
and the tequila might have evaporated
only tongues and torsos left
thighs...might have touched
and a tongue tickled the two
others
in turns

we were late
the gathering had already begun
a solemn voice recited
his stories
his words
became ours
among whitened walls
behind him were instruments
quiet like us
anxiously waiting
unfamiliar with house
rituals
he finished and we applauded
along with the faces
captured on canvas
and hung with nails
on the walls
The next voice was a woman
she spoke in verse
free, blank,
only slightly
ordered
but sensual
inviting
inside and beyond
our faces
her voice
her body
reflected in the windows
and we were invited
to eat and drink upstairs
that night
with words
and faces surrounding us
voices and music
a strange lady
performing
mostly to herself
but everything
telling more stories
for us to contemplate
until next time

For a while
we shared a dream
of buttons, fabrics
elongated figures
frozen on platforms
we saw the inside
of memories subjective
overlocked and sewn
into costumes and masks
behind the screen conveyed
in experimental dance
we watched the shapes move
for a while
communicating
feeling the motions deep
underneath our skin
like whispers
unable to touch
for real
there were sample displays
to satisfy this need
safely
on our way out