There you are. Your skin’s impeccable smell, the beeswax whiff of it. The rustle of your limbs around my skull, like the turn of a page progressing along a two-voice tale. Your scent returns as a ripple. You who are my week, my gristle. Hop into the space I’ve opened between my hands, rest there in your figurative purrs. I have said before that I cannot hold these leaves open on my own, that the space I gave once deadened the brass in me, but your air still reverberates with the uncanny sensation of feathers dipped in gold.
Listen. Your whole body is a whisker. Love has caused these ribbons to tighten inside my skin, hold me upright in false and disconcerting ways, and your response was this: yes, I too am tired of running, running in this way that feels like falling between loosened sheets of earth. Yes, you said, my whole body is a whisker. Let me give you the water I’ve wrung from my hair, cup your ears and catch its languid syllable curd. Begin a benevolent trade between soil and atmosphere. Yes, I too am tired of the blackened wick, the missing glue between things. We have seen what your eyes can do; we have both been on the cusp of your fire.