The sky is molten, mon amour. A broil of clouds in my heart. How long can I wait?
In this silence in which I wait.
You cannot know, mon homme chéri.
For I do not wish to burden you.
A relational line, a trajectory, a specific set of connections, patterns, motions into. Fire of desire. The threads extinguish themselves in the smoldering flame. What is moving towards erases itself as it burns, charred, blown away in the wind.
Will you catch me?
Or will you let me pass by?
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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ReplyDeleteI've always loved this phrasing, from Miranda Shaw's, Passioante Enlightenment: "this nonessentialist self is seen not as a boundaried or static entity but as the site of a host of energies, inner winds and flames, dissolutions, meltings, and flowings that can bring about dramatic transformations in embodied experience"...
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