passive pressure

I feel like I am writing from nowhere and with nothing. I lay my hand down, have it move but cannot read what has been affected. Something may not be there, but my hand is moving, still, an untraceable gesture beneath my eyes. I capitalize myself, seize the day and subject it to scripture. To no deny, I am tempted by narcotic’s aid, help me help me, they run through blood and say. But I inhale only purity, a toxin here and there—shallow sharp tastes, only when I have to. Bodies try for balance across the plank, we watch, wrestling with our hearts. Gold embedded across your lids, stands out against a white washed background of sky. Until they lash backwards and my eye sees blue hanging, centered in the cloud of your eyes. Large enough to contain a world, and they do. Tell me what you see there, all your happenings that I do not know. Please tell me only once.
I lay naked against the sand’s skirting. Your body pressed against my folds, secretions drowning around my edges. Internalizing until my pores secrete you. And then, will I be emptied, will you be gone? No, not ever. “Read me something in the language your eyes spell out,” he wishes, and I follow to please.

The candescent sea collapses against the small curves of her body. Her body, hanging like a canopy on the sensuous shore of throbbing solitude. She remains there, visibly and audibly, as if she were one long sigh. No part of her shows an inclination to move. Except for her fingers that press deeper into the coating of the beach. Shells crumble and break like glass. Clouds hang like ornaments in a blue stretch of time. And I, I resemble a future self with a body that melts in the shoreline, a fabricated figure woven into hanging arms and a torso trunk. My strangling legs wrap around this mounting form and at a distance a difference of selves cannot be figured. I do not mind this tangle, how I have been caught, submerged into temperatures that shock more than physicality. My only wish is to hold on—to stay—on the border where the sea meets the shore and falls desperately on to the body of the beach—where the silken sea is like a ribbon rippling to the rhythms of the fleeting birds who sing their poetics to the wind who is moving too fast, to stop and reply. Landscape imagery grows around me, as the water breaks inside my hand, scraping my palm and leaving another scarred wrinkle (I have been effected). The sun drips on to my lids. Eyes poke open to avoid the burning sensation of sight, as a lash falls uselessly. I see blue marble eyes (my fixation is unbreakable) that match the cloth of the sky that has been designed behind him, for him. I feel pacified and can no longer tell whether his eyes stand before the sky or the sea, for I am high above both, yet inside of them too.

My lips take pause. His body falls from mine. He becomes useless, now. Waves change their pattern—nothing falls, nothing breaks, nothing touches me. Silence becomes a new sound and that is the only thing I feel—a texture, a weight, I cannot breathe against. “Your prose could have been about anyone.” What? I don’t understand him. “The male with the blue eyes. The body your legs were wrapped around. It may not be me, but any figure you wanted to romanticize, idealize, isolate. How am I to know who it is your eyes see, your mind remembers, you think is special?” He knows it has not been about him solely. Not all scenes can be uniquely distinguished, but there is a closeness—a quality in gesture—that preserves a place, that characters can feel in and out of time. It is very rare that a story is secluded for and by one soul. It often comes because of everyone, or at least so many.