A compass in my thumbs deposits me variously reincarnated on the doorstep of our conversation, yet each time an infant wrapped in a different blanket.
Long have I pored over the spectrum of untrammelled human emotion, spanning cover to cover in this self-forbidden grimoire prefaced with bearer risk warnings.
Now my tongue plays host to an intermittent rebellion of intangibles, each laconic usurper alacritously poised to halt a never-ending coronation.
Hope-marbled milky shadows beckon softly with a sleepy seduction, searing the remaining threads of her stitched through my fibres: a cyborg-like tingling.
I wonder if we have all along been welding another contradiction onto our feet, birthing the latest excuse for returning to our destiny under the yoke of newly-minted gods.