Friday, April 15, 2022

38

A little loosening. Thinking “together” and writing “tonight”—how might such a slip become a tear in what is, an opening toward an otherwise? Hold there, in the distance between joining and this darkness, hot water with lemon and honey, night sky with just a few stars. Hold there, in the distance between wanting to be and wanting to be seen, projections out towards small clusters of language, barnacles against the edge of the shore. Not having makes so many fissures in what’s otherwise whole. Being seen by you the way identity isn’t a question, or rather, is understood to always be one, unfinished and invisible somewhere behind pieces of recrystallized stone, vast caverns of an internal world dug out of pixelated blocks and overflowing noise. What if behind every choice is a piece of thin blue ribbon, a whole city made and remade out of string, drawn across every relation until all that exists are the measures of distance?

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41

When writing was a way back in, the way was a holding, breath, the rhythm of a hot morning before anyone else in the house wakes up. There w...