Once, come close, someone pulled at their lip and caught you there: maybe. A long time later, in a different life, you sensed a flickering of this, in a different city, at a time that found you unawares. It stopped you for a while: the way that once-forgotten touch tends to do.
Once, she placed her hand on my chest, and her print is indelible now. This sliver-moment is sunk in me. Of course, at the time, she knew what it was she was doing, entirely, and there’s no such thing as moments that look like slivers.
I stop writing for a while because of words . . .
The world we’re all enmeshed in is felt and lived within such multitudes of planes: some may see the numbers of it all, some the colours, music or other sounds, some may see in dance, in segments of time or times, or some might see in words. All the velvet stories of our days enwrap us. All the felt and chiffon descriptors of our current surroundings enfold us. Once upon a time comes close, sometime when we’re immersed in other lives: it breathes hotly at our ear.
The matter of our lives and words combine. What richnesses we keep concealed in the pockets of our days and in the depths imprinted in our fingertips. The depth-textures of all we write (whether on the air, or on the page, or onto someone else’s skin) are pressed with all the very many days contained within our fingerprints.
Once, come close, someone kissed you. It never left your lips, though you didn’t know how this would happen at the time; though, now, you don’t always think of it. All the kisses you’ve ever tasted do this. Imagine the intensity if they all came back at once . . .
We’re fingerprint-deep and kissed-stained through and through.
Later, in a different city, in the vegetation density of a different life, fractions with the weight of butterflies and with the mass of moments flutter because of utterly unconnected things. Or maybe connections are more complex than we think: the temporal-rhizomatic mesh we live within.
Once, when she kissed me, softly, leaving traces of her on me all these years gone by, she left a thread to whatever of this ochre scene before me now spins back and back to her. I haven’t the capacity to understand the links, but I know that something does.
The texture content of our written matters is depth-enmeshed infused; the flesh and grain of all our days, the intimate maps of our lives, the lived experience in all its rhizomatic connectedness, is intrinsic to our lines. That with which we are concerned is matter.
Once, come closer, someone left a gap in your life.