Tuesday, September 29, 2020

What's on Fire

Leaves on the front yard maple tree are brittle now. The neighbors are empathetic about the horses, all of us trying to be companionate in ways that make sense. Peering through the kitchen window at 3 a.m. to see stars. Sliding into pockets of warmth her body makes beneath blankets, her ass shifting against my cock stiffening, dreamy in the gaps. What sails becomes yellow first, and everything is understandable accordingly. In the Jesus complex, always but not forever. Healers where recently there was only confusion and the frantic energy of racing against time. Your heart is not my heart, but mind is unconditionally shared. What's on fire is what saves us. Below even the idea of ice, a blue stillness that wants neither death nor life nor neither.

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