I told myself to finally fall asleep. My alarm would wake at nine. Three hours in, around eight, I found his hand and held it. I was barely self-conscious, but the feeling his hand was holding me back effectuated a resistance to becoming paralyzed in the final hours till I would have to have him go. This wouldn’t be a need nor a want. It was just something about the time. So I stayed open, as he stayed sleeping. I never hold anyone’s hand. I always thought the attachment would feel strange.
a presence inspired by the production of perpetual passion. or perhaps vice versa. processual prose for the preservation of captivating moments. memory must exist to exist. i capture moments to make it so. "claudelean are you awake?" always. "if you could have one wish what would it be?" for an instant to forget my body. with a mind of material, i attempt to write out what is within. it helps me forget my body to make matter.
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