tithe with words

An easy kickstart to your own romantic hero’s journey is poisoning yourself. A pained body suggests a future relief. Canonically, the death of a thing. As he touches one palm to my skin to ready needles over penned outline, he’s reaching closer than other strangers and places a piece of himself into the requisite safety. A confession. He’s always been anxious and misplaced. Filtered through cerulean eyes and the choral hum of small daggers, his shame becomes melody. We are all seeds wanting rebirth. We don’t ask for all the reasons why we cover a naked body’s anonymity. Had you asked I would have opened the can and spilled my undeveloped goo, that it’s social call and response. I can’t know if that’s true. It’s the prepackaged food of wisdom. It’s too facile to be nutritious, too simple of a carb to sustain. I need your mirror. What I mean when speaking of a body is time. Preoccupation with longevity. I travel the globe faster than light in the seconds you take to answer me. Suspended neither heavy nor weightless. Sometimes a climactic nonfeeling in a world of feelings is good. Amorous abyss. Between bifurcation. A peer reviewed science journal notes the materializing of the soul as a ‘magical moment at which a cluster of cells becomes more than a mere physical thing’. Will we remember confession’s connotations sprout from shame. A Catholic plant in our midst, a liturgy still in our linguistics. Shame, I love confessions more than yak. I’ll love your confessions to death.