How is this whispered smile a direction? How is this heated pursuit more than a rate of change? How does the song on the radio become the song in the heart? The exchange of oath and fluids, the raising of surface tension as if by spell. The certainty that all other certainties were best intentioned mistakes. The knowledge that there is no such thing as an original sin.
It is as full as the manic moon, as empty as the waiting box, this hunger built in to the wager of our blood. The drizzled words slowly dissolving on the heat of another tongue. The periphery of scent and work, the animal magic of life as it is lived. The word begets language which begets culture, which invents origins and reasons that can not be reasoned with. The shallow grave attempts to hide the beast of chemistry and lightning, the creature that arises from the slab-- beautiful and bound for glory. Every angel an act of creation, every abduction the stunning truth of the hunt. Love burns brightly, entombed in shadows and skin.
The signal grows strong, painted with the hollow places, the stark insistence of beauty we grow into god. Surety and appetite, the tilt of a head, the steadiness of that smile, the burdensome mesmerism made from hip and sway. Alone in the crowd, famished at the feast, mortality stalks and swoops its fuels and its fires. Kisses nuzzling a bare, expectant belly. Stars that fall in no particular order. The ghost drawing its icy breath, thirsty for the flow of blood that binds it.
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