sough
“The stronger civilization becomes, the more deeply the love of death is buried in the subconscious.”
Since being with you, I know what it is to catch the wind between my fingertips. I taste your glitter in my mouth and wonder why I’ve waited this long to feel alive.
My heart belongs to the lofty space where birds flutter in the rafters. When I hear their rustle, I open my eyes and it’s you in bed, tousling sheets.
There’s no such sound where I am presently, and I am falling in love with the distance between the linens and the length of your back.
What would our passion become if we were to lay side by side, night after night? Would it be the bug trapped in the metal waste bin—buzzing at the edges, seeking a way out?
When I speak your name, I know I am stating it wrongly. There’s no correct way to adore somebody. When I see you, I will call you by your name with the proper syllables.
Until then, it’s just the sound of feathers.
