Push harder.

It’s the cork that keeps us from negotiating.
It is the hip lashes that are bound to the wall we are trying to move.
Like rippling beasts.

This will evolve.

Each revolution around a pixilated world are just metaphoric steps, aren’t they?
Because no one really moans like that unless they know someone is listening.

I was listening.

My body is foreign to me now. I am in a new birth.
I am fascinated with the way my stomach dips in on itself when I lay on my back.
Come. Let me show you how new my fingers have learned to see.

I am a pool. I am a spring. I am a bowl.  I offer milk on my skin.

Come drink at me.

Then we can run hands on foreign bodies and make sense of the new curves and make new the old ones.

It would be new to see the tragic swash of red smeared high up your lip and on to your cheek. It would be new to see strange eyes and strange hair framed below my strange body in the half dark.

Strange pieces with rough to smooth edges making shapes with precise intention on a thousand count canvas. Milk. And Spice. And sweat.

The only thing that is the same would be the knowing. Maybe the desire. Maybe the sound. And the scents.

I was listening.

But was it real? Can you summon your talent at will?

This will evolve.
It will evolve.