Time Spreads Open Across the Hour.

I live in the stretch of moment becoming moment. Where time tangles as desire exceeds and recedes. There my feelings exist flexibly, having not become captivated, yet. To be still means I must suspend freedom, lay dedicated to one choice of being. But when the hour bends over light, it is difficult to see you as anything other than time, that which moves me. Between presence’s affect and effect is the chance for gesture: to be made, to be had. Humped over, in my flesh, I cannot avoid having to become. Strokes shape so I dilate on your touch. Even fingers licking thighs distorts silence, for so often I hear within the space of suspended figures the body’s voice defining internalized sighs. In your eyes, having seen you coming, does not stabilize me, but not unlike looking into a mirror has me reflect on time’s sensitivity. The time, which was us, becoming larger than our single bodies. Even after presence, there is no moment within absence that the body is elastic. Look closer, to be its original shape is impossible. Substance cannot ever make one contract. Even materials of the mind give us size, weight, inner intensity. Ceaselessly changing, I cannot complain. No one else made me get involved. I have learned to expect and accept the aftereffect of beings dominating time. If only there was promise for duality feeling long enough, so on the stroke of the hour when bending down in touch, time gave pause to the most precious second of a feeling. Not one and others, only one. 

It would shock me still.