the sanded hill sat beneath the sky for eye to see.

Stamping the grass with my figure, I sat there, on the spine of the hill, nearly breakable, struggling with this unexpected dimension of solitude. Both the hill and I kept still before the shadows of artificiality, lingering at our back like a deep stain. The two eyes of mine looked out upon birds pushing apart the traveling clouds—as delicate as breath wafting through a room contained by darkness and contaminated by carnalities. Eyes watched as they fell through the sky and landed on an afterthought. Where in the world is he? I circled the curiosity that paced through the alleyways of my mind, while my rationale was drenched in feces. Where in the world is he, if he is supposed to be here with his nude feet tucking through the blades of grass?—too featherlike to inflict wounds. I could hardly move for I was far too centered in the depths of a distant wish. Feeling as though I had returned to a familiarity—a moment’s happening that spills forth my fragility, a time that pulses though my blood only to rise with awareness and singe my oiled flesh. Good day, I scream. But I feel something less remarkable. For what is a wish, other than a memory that turns and chases after our moving body until it stares us straight in the face and falls through our eyes? I let myself drop, so my back and the grass perked up beneath it collapse on what I imagine to be beads of sand coated by the sunset’s warm afterglow. My hands stretch out at my sides and I look like I have been pinned into the earth. However, the dramatics of such an event drop away, as I am robbed by truth. Looking with more intensity it can be seen that I am solely fingering the sand’s surface, searching for gold. Coming across nothing but the powdery substance of a coke man’s dream, I raise my arms as the wealth of the world slides through the slices between my fingers. I almost laugh at the idea that I am situated on a sick soul’s superficial dependency. Lifting elated eyes, a white washed sky covers my sight like a puff of smoke that makes me feel lazy. Perception has no permanence. Blankness covers my head and cools me like a wave underneath my chin. Whiteness: the inexistency of color, I repeat again and again. “Whiteness: the inexistency of color,” until it defines me, until my body memorizes motions of continual movement—again and again. Arms flap in flight at my side. Wings for fleeing spaces of solitude, I am an angel in the snow. I am an angel in the snow I am an angel in the snow I am an angel in the snow. And then, with senses cut out from myself, I am nothing—just a sleeper drowning in dreams on a dry and restless hill. Eyes waken and renew me. My wings are laced with his fingers, as his body lays present on the spine. You have finally come. “I have been here. You were safely sleeping and I did not want to force you into wakefulness.” The outer corners of my lips curl up toward my cheeks, I could not have wished it otherwise, for this was the way to open my eyes.