The truest moments I’ve ever known have been those created by body and being and soul and flesh drenched lips and skin on skin and time deteriorating with the blackening of some foreign sky and a strangers laugh; a familiar hand in the dark. Another days memory smeared and knotted hair; the reality of freckled skin illuminated in streaky mid morning sun. Pools of my own milky skin against your sheets in the darkness where I cannot see, but for the first time understand everything.
Reality comes in lesions of the skin and I sit and watch my blood poor out of careless wounds and I am conscious of my own existence, the proof I have always needed spilling out before me.
It’s when my hand catches a knot in your hair and I pause and think because just as the tugging of my fingers causes you pain - yes, I can bring you misery - this simple complication is all the proof I need to know you also are alive; a notion I cannot hardly fathom or understand as such perfect coincidence cannot be assumed.
The truth blooms in my emptiness; the times I am most alone. I touch one hand to the other; press my tongue against my teeth. I can hardly believe I am real.