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Show Desire This is how the flesh lives with itself, dying; how wind coalesces into breath and comes back to its senses carrying dust, burning with torn leaves. All these contours, concavities in which hearts break, the condensed moisture of night, the moon swelling through pearled clouds, the incense of your skin rising like the scent of the soaked sand at low tide when the sun warms it. There is no denial to be completed in itself. No acceptance breaking like a wave through salvation. Only you and me, dressed in our pretensions in this barren, closed room, poised and distant, too aware, the heat of our bodies escaping to the air. |