these days my mouth is a blur and my mind is scrambling for new passages and habits and I almost got la segunda lengua thing down. but I am alone.
My thoughts drift to cold nights and warm beds, frail, beautiful things curling up against a warm body with eyes deeply closed, sitting pretty in that sweet spot where manliness is not ugliness, but it is close and where boyishness is not recklesness, but it is close, where all the chipped and imperfect things are anew again and all my almosts are appreciated and in accord. the nexus of the nervous eyes and assured voice and the small, pretty things it draws in close to envelop and protect and nourish until the sunlight jars us back to life.
the flat back and bulging torso making riverbeds for tired heads. I miss the company of forms.
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