I

I

am

you

vocal

by you-I

catapulted in

apertures of closure.

Why do lines become sultry curves?

 

 

You are wrapped in silk. It’s a smooth tactile tickle, like Burt Reynolds bringing Mom vino beneath a Tuscan sunset. It’s comfortable. Come Forward goes a muffled frequency. It resonates two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen. Your skeleton. Frozen. Come fort. As if you’re able. As if your bones could handle such a shake. Microwaved on high > liquefy. Muscles slip in skin. You reach out, a fleshy undulation bound in sericultural genocide. Boiling within, your final embrace is a historical vibration which had been destined for far sultrier lace.


Your mouse is a voice bouncing around the room. Move around to direct.