Thursday, April 21, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 35

On a whitewashed wall in the fortified city of your body

I come to you slowly. You say something I don't understand. You laugh. Write your name on my abdomen. I walk from the edge of my body to yours. Sleepwalkers like us don't distinguish between reality and desire. To us reality is wider, more tangible, more corporal. It’s a garden in the bedroom, a thick weave of braided hair, an endless hieroglyph tangled in our legs, and rarely can we find someone to decrypt, read, or write it on our bodies.

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