“ What would you do if you were in love right now?”
To sit and stare, moved weakly by the breeze - embodying the trees fat with frangipani, tumbling down. I am not bound by haste. And we make the soup stock from elderflowers and fish bones - brewing the most fragrant broth to choke upon.
And may we gossip of Raphael, of Michelangelo.
So do I dare? Do I dare disturb the universe? I push for this peradventure: for how I am vexed by this certainty. This vulnerability.
I would hold both hands up in protest to heaven as my pot boiled over. Until we are all foam. To swallow this peach pit, to lavish gold foil onto these incisors of mine: I have savored rancid meat for far too long, under the bask of supermarket fluorescent lighting.