Those are soft windows that keep these four eyed rooms in our pretty cat yarns. Asleep under the mouth of a friend, or a spiral love contained in each small hair. What formula the birds make at our wandering language(s)– researched for eighteen years before we meet in the flesh beneath a flickering halogen. Arms we attach, the extra wings that we have set upon one another's broken shoulders– the ones to repair the loss and pay for damages inside our breath. Souls wiggling next to each other from the radio waves inside us, to the licking skin, a nights alone weave person to long anchored person– Build the secret machine in us. Tuned at that night watch as the snow passes down our loving loop story– It's Myst of our devises we must someday submerge, alone one another to final transmitter tower, a dark left turn upon the electric, we gotta go down that channel, the open sign where an electric daisy rises up.