Forgive me, my silence, for my left hand has turned over. I loosened my contorted fist and let the pen fall stupidly.
Words are lodged in the barrel senselessly, obsolete ink left to go cold and motionless.
I placed my hand against the reverberations of the ground, not for stillness. For you, somewhere,
I feel you writing on the other side, whatever side this is. I listen for your turns in stroke, the blank moments of you
in thought.
The dotting, from I’s, from ends. The crossing, from T’s, from extension, from persisting, resisting the simpler stop.
Forgive me,
goodness, for my pause, this flesh punctuation, punctured continuation, a drop of blood. Perhaps the last,
perhaps I don’t know how to begin again,
forgive me for the trailing off. My hand, it might as well be yours, the way it feels around like eyes darting at the slightest
sudden twitch. The slight impression on whatever surface you impose upon, I drill my hands inside to feel it, to hope that I can read it on my palm when it returns to me, I hope
to be imposed upon, a paper to be darkened, diagnosed with sightless images, oh you,
be absent on me, think faster than your words and do not make sense on me, drone arrhythmically,
punctuate in the aggressive pleasure of achieving another line, pause and put your weight on me, fulfill and stutter on the pathology,
engrave it against the sheath of me, my skin, its faint
glow in the night you can't rest between, dot me with constellations of sweat when you can't squeeze the worst yet out of you and goodness, please
forgive me. I love it. I have dreamt, it spills on me from green, sick skies, goodness...
I masochize absent hobbies. It's placeless origin, spontaneous bloom, endless bleeding, feeling around in the dark now,
turning my hand over to drop the scalpel tipped on years of me, my self-inflicted lesions of search and fall stand damply cool against air I stopped suffocating on
for once I, forgive me, pressed myself in. It was only my hand at first, but now there's script transcribing on every cell of my skin, writhing in minuscule tendrils and they...
fuck, forgive me, this pause. My pulse, they don't detect my frantic lungs with their mindless imposition decoding, unknowingly
hitching inspiration, blunting composure when the moment tilts into perfect pressure
and the ink doesn't fucking stop rolling out from its metal tongue, doesn't dry
up for a second, for fractals of sense
before I'm under again, and wonder for the pen in the glimpse I caught, parallel-postured across this groundless surface, gleaming like a scar, a scar
open like an eye, an eye I dropped in the corner, dropped like the slightest metal, like the scalpel tipped with me. I cannot return to it because I
cannot return my palms or depose the rest of me from you,
writing. You, somewhere...
This is so beautiful, it made me cry. 🥹
Your words are visceral. 🖤