It seemed so much as no new and uncommon thing that what passes on as only a disappearance, is but a temporary postponement of something long withheld in feelingfulness, in treason of oneβs desire or simply, a hand which is there, or kept in a pocket scouring for loose change, a hand which, somewhere, is known in accurate proprioception: refusing to be held;
I swim against the current not for the water behind your river that dreams of fish
I wake not underneath the bowl of moon slated by sensorial howl, whose wounds are white like a face once held in between palms
and sleep almost endlessly, together with everything that twitches, slewing to avoid collision, alliterates to blur meaning, sways fervently to addle meeting
until we let loose a sigh, and unfasten ourselves, dropping pace and both our eyes meet.