it begins with flesh — the sanguinary delights of being that which inhabits inside one small miracle. i understand god & his capricious, carnivorous hunger for the body. a sharp-edged spine, the swelling of the blood, muscle or heart that in unison weave themselves in and out of the body, everything sings in here. the pulse which throbs, the sigh which dies at the first breath. i split the side of the body into an open wound so i may enter it, my metaphorical hook into an allegorical mouth. then i step inside myself : let there be woman ( if you are into this sort of humor ). this is skin which i have stitched together to make it mine, a body of flesh, that will know touch for touch itself. & now, not without morbid satisfaction, i touch the place between one rib and another, finger to skin to bone.
i feel myself dissolving entirely into fragmentary sensations: the wind which recognizes me but not this body, the softness of mortality, the first touch from my palm & i breathe for the first time. this is air, this is sound. the consequence of flesh is the feeling of it or rather, the being. i am contaminated by it, or inebriated, perhaps, is a better word. i look at the ground spotted with the flamboyant orange of sunset and light fills the folds of my clothes, raw and inexorable light. this meat is still incredulous of the simple pleasure of being. in any other story, you would call this a birth.
& he, the @dreamkinge, would call it unnecessary whims of a restless mind. i did not anticipate the stubbornly swirl of two black on black eyes or the subtle way his jaw is set, slighly clentched in a way he looks almost human. he is obsessively efficient like that, a clock that marks the hour right as it strikes. i have little inclination for impulse — whatever insubstantial blood through our insubstantial veins, he & i are the same. the thought of it is oddly comforting. 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 : "this is not the way", & i answer:
❛ the way is whatever we make it, dream. there are no specific rules against this. ❜
