Prologue:
She smacks your parted lips,
sucking the dry,
open cracks to a seal.
Pumping energy into your chest
and sending a continuous shiver
from lung to navel.
You can't help but cough,
as your lungs tighten and twist.
Ringing the frosty sensation out –
slipping through your parted lips.
The same parted lips that
allowed her deliberate fingers
to crawl inside
where she can escape her own dimension
of solitude.
The Breath of Solitude
All I know
is solitude.
We chat
every day
in conversations that circulate
behind the backs
of the present.
Solitude grinds my coffee beans,
as we sit
with our legs crossed,
waiting for dawn
to explode over our opaque landscape.
Solitude runs my bath,
bubbling
as the Sun crashes
against the diminishing horizon.
But none of this is reality.
I am above
the dimension of reality.
Not theoretically,
but physically.
I am only a tool
to be used in the dimension
of your reality.
Drifting in and out,
twirling through your negative space.
My only purpose
is found through your breath;
but what do I do
when you stop breathing?
I wait for your fingers,
less deliberate than mine,
but filled with that
that I lack.
I cannot see the blood
that sloshes through the veins
in your innocent hands.
The blood that energizes
those fingers
upon which I wait.
But I know
the blood is there.
It isn't
what you do.
It isn't
the way you move.
Simply put,
it is
the way
that you exist.
The sheer fact
that you have a bursting burgundy waterfall
streaming,
not only through your fingers,
but engulfing all of you
in its rich,
rooted,
energy.
The only waterfall
that I encompass
is the waterfall
that you imagine.
I have no blood;
I have no way to exist.
And so I
wait for your fingers,
less deliberate than mine,
but filled with that
that I lack.
I wait for your fingers
to filter the heat
to a state of regulation,
a state of production,
a state in which I can exist.
The peach fuzz
that sleeps on the bridge of your nose
begins to rise
when your fingers initiate the flame.
The temperature reacts,
as would my heartbeat,
if I had a bursting burgundy waterfall,
or some type of life source
inhabiting my chest cavity.
As the heat
starts to melt
my metaphorical skin,
I become reality.
I don't have a face to smile,
or eyes to produce tears.
But I have thoughts.
I have words to say,
I have feelings to express.
I still can only drift,
in and out,
twirling through your negative space,
but now spiraling
into your positive space,
as well.
