I don't know how it happens, maybe because of the pulse of the air. The destiny of the eye that sees is an oracle of salt. It's good to ask the skin to keep her tales unfinished. How to explain the roundness, the warmth of tears inventing the curvature of thought. This curvature that keeps the edge of the world from falling into herself, that cuddle the soft tissue of darkness. My ribcage cries a cry raising from the center. My tears, your tears, it doesn't matter whose tears, there is this thread tying the stuttering of light like the time that ties lovers in a rented room.
my wounds your wounds the solitude the dread the call without an answer the hands without mind the words that humiliate the oblivious heart the cruelty the silence of seduction the curves of temptation the magic of seeing the deadness the gospel of love our crying bodies without mind. I cry for this absence, this fullness, how they work like a dream. The body is teaching us how to unknow what we know. Stop and listen, search with imaginary eyes, I say to myself, see the backbone of pain hidden in plain sight. See the joy fighting to live, the joy that makes us loud and terrible and nonsulphurous at heart. Everything is there waiting to become.
Oct 28, 2025
Oct 28, 2025 at 5:04 PM UTC
I don't know how it happens, maybe because of the pulse of the air. The destiny of the eye that sees is an oracle of salt. It's good to ask the skin to keep her tales unfinished. How to explain the roundness, the warmth of tears inventing the curvature of thought. This curvature that keeps the edge of the world from falling into herself, that cuddle the soft tissue of darkness. My ribcage cries a cry raising from the center. My tears, your tears, it doesn't matter whose tears, there is this thread tying the stuttering of light like the time that ties lovers in a rented room.
my wounds your wounds the solitude the dread the call without an answer the hands without mind the words that humiliate the oblivious heart the cruelty the silence of seduction the curves of temptation the magic of seeing the deadness the gospel of love our crying bodies without mind. I cry for this absence, this fullness, how they work like a dream. The body is teaching us how to unknow what we know. Stop and listen, search with imaginary eyes, I say to myself, see the backbone of pain hidden in plain sight. See the joy fighting to live, the joy that makes us loud and terrible and nonsulphurous at heart. Everything is there waiting to become.
