Intuitively I don’t think I can be there on my own. I had a distressing thought about if I could ever feel a motion without a tune to lull me and if the space of wooze between wake and rest is something I would rather than actually feeling a breeze or a hand. But then justthen I remember the very real tactility I think I have at this chapter. To himself now I truly feel the strands that before I had been weaving in my retinas in sleep and in wooze.
Part of me is checking himyself over and over again with doubts as to if is too open during available hours, am too lightly gracing every open sore? I know the air is good but will the flesh be too much for some? I have a lot of fibers that are always weaving and threading around in loops and cross stitches but will they break and wear when I leave them outside is my concern I think.
But then is when I look outside to saidsun and I find that I feel rested in arms like one of many fibers in a stem together with those I feel fibrous towards together synchronous and in peace.
This honesty between us gathers and folds into beautiful prints that become more rich with every hour like when he tells me of lusts and I show him the insides of my empty hands devoid of tales and experience but rich with texture and we’re both alright with that and even though I’m scared of splinters or small little bugs that could be nesting eggs between my fingers I still am going to trust!
There is an ebb that is unrelenting me and I will flow weavingly through it all with one of my arms exposed with him there in the ebb, one arm for myself, and my torso to be in softly sifting light that emanates assurance. Who would have thought?
"in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me
or which I cannot touch because they are too near”