In my dream, I hold her beady waist and know her by the
dense bones of her back.
But we do not chase this story because it is strung too far into
the cosmos for us to travel. If I can’t find the fetus of our love, then I can’t
have her in my hands.Only in loyalty, or in dreams, or in our DNA.
History streams inside us where vulnerabilities have been
cemented into flesh, which has grown a bridge between us attaching us by skin. I
feel her moving in the night, which strains my body and still I cannot have
her. After we bathed under the fig moon I traded my soul in, I traded in my
hunger for insurance.
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