We are so gross. We like to torch our brains and see each other’s illusions in smoke. I’m grappling with it the whole time. Sitting Indian style. But also walking and chasing things, too, that ache for us to see them.
I’m lighting up in flames when I start to see my senses over there, away from me, burned along a wick through the nightlight.
My mouth feels especially pitted. Especially a hole, and with my words it becomes a satisfying rupture of tactile messages. What are words but feelings?
I feel downward pulls from spaces ahead and upward pulls when looking at you.
I touch your corrugated fingers and can’t remember travelling to you, but wait, now I remember crossing through downy air. Always been very spirited air from me to you.
Our time is fatty like a bitten peach. So rife with fibers. We see all our time like thick sweet, browned from flame, smelling ashes curling around us.
I couldn’t kiss you even if I wanted. My tongue could not span all of your flavors. Piece upon tiny piece uncaked anymore.
Your face is clay to me. What I perceive is no familiar mold. Your beauty reforms in front of me like brush strokes made in every direction remade every second. Cheek blush from a paint brush out of the sky.
I’m grappling with it still while I lay, horizontal or vertical. Noises remove from their objects to carry to my eyes, then ears. I only smell what I point at.
If the air is too sharp over here, then I go near the trees where I hear it is fleecy. If it’s too fleecy, maybe I want to drown in air wetter than here.
I could be confused about the specters I see. Or I could name the creepers something else comfortable, from a time creamy to lay in.