the cold film runs across my forehead, those clean fingers finding their way down a throat, a slightest metal twitch and there might have been birds there, once. but the adjustment is dizzying, but the teeth can't be fixed by sleeping, but they never learn to devour their loves. but my hands play a story they do not know and i try to feel the way. minute recalculations, the space of breath clicks beneath the tongue, rise up and... i was here. i waited.
it never joins. my head is so far away from the thoughts. only close enough to:
1) he is a child who needs violence, something to move him.
2) it will be a beautiful surprise when that new year comes.
3) terror holds my throat.
4) remembering love. waking in the night to attach to your fire, that breathing. and how you only found a garden, a joy, some suspension of the maths to later bite down hard.
5) i remove my fingers and place them in a box, with an intent smile and curiosity, a small comfort.
but if you stood before me now, no longer steeling the arcane.
but we would know.
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