prayers mean nothing to me. empty sound. like a tree, she curved into my spine, a word. hurricane.
it is time. windowpanes give way to the sea calling. one speck hang on a pockmarked pole attached to my radio. where goes the sound after the first contact. skin. little hurricanes of passion. murky like the bloody mary after six. alternatively enabler/saboteur of peace.
at night, i am a whirling dervish to the electric fan. hands reaching head reaching a point. it is the point i drive towards in darkness. this sound reaches no tunnel. an end to this end, time. the stories she writes with her body, the body that leaves through the door.
i have more to say, but in circles. the words armoured against thoughts,
keep breathing. exeunt when you think of thinking of nights that burrow into loose earth and dancing.
The sketch used as prompt is the intellectual property of Mumtendu.