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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