There is this thing
And I feel like I’m outside of my skin,
it’s quite peculiar.
It’s somewhere in open mouths reaching, fingernails digging and it’s definitely in between the sensation of falling and the ship sinking.
And sitting here circling words over my tongue I wonder what happens when writers fall in lust, if they do it first with their brains, their tongues or their pens.
In a planet far away they will listen in and hear the buzzing of loud refrigerators and the sound of a woman trying to go to sleep while wondering where ink stops and flesh starts in her.