When waking, dreamers expected only to be readyNever did I believe in myself so muchAlways rather realistic, believing time wasn’t a guarantee.Reaching through the curtains, the sun would aestheticize meIn the earliest hours of light, even I could be thought new.An apricot, plump in places, the mouth would findBetween thighs, complexion ripening.But even then, I wasn’t readySolely an image that hadn’t yet become a feeling.I hoped any body waking before mine would first seeIntensifying case of light, knowing on impactIn bed I am made out to be an illusionary magnification.Who, after closer gazing, is committedSleeping still, dreaming I was not close enough to the hour’s reality.Nor in a rush to know whether I am alive and possiblySomeone substantial.
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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