Wooden fingertips of electricity puncturing the heavy mist,
the mist that doesn’t dance from molecule to molecule,
the mist that doesn’t spread like wildfire,
the mist that doesn’t expand like the crackle of napalm, but is slow,
pregnant and mute,
the mist that weeps into the eyes
and the cameras
and blurs everything into a short-sighted daydream;
the mist that cuts everything down to nothing,
the mist that simmers around the breath and takes it and makes it its own.

Oh you;
I want to hold you,
when we meet in the crowded mist,
and I want to say nothing, in so many words;
to have to say nothing.

I want to dance with you – if I could dance!
I’d want you to spread, from the hands to the heart to the mind and have you be my happiness.
I’d want you to crackle, across my motor neurons, like strings on a marionette.

I want our fingertips to be eternally pregnant.
I want our souls to be sterile
and newborn,
and to love each other like we were all that we had –
love each other like we were the world.

I want you to cry your tears into my eyes,
and have you,
and have you be my mist.

I want to see you, and nothing.

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