fire spell

There is no memory of two sets of large brown eyes meeting and instantly falling in love. Only two matching bodies continuously attaching and separating over a short pocket of life, performing roles and reversals. I have always thought of her as somebody's delicate child. Our relationship was like that of two mystical friends, more imaginary than real. We were always exploring ways to have fun without getting into trouble, taking turns lighting small fires while the other tried to hold onto it safely, burning more of their fingertips each time. 

It feels like we could still be playing together in the distance between flickering amber light and near-total darkness. 

Next to one another, we would never know the correct colors of the gestures necessary to find any lasting balance. The blood-orange hue of a bony heel after getting caught in a department store escalator.  The dirty beige walls inside a basement security office.  Carelessly handled burnt black polaroids.

Children's bodies store essential information that forms a series of citations, recorded for life, not always accessible, but sometimes awakened for a purpose. These may exist in the form of reconstructed musical scores, fragments, and impossible sketches that most people I love believe are best left alone in the dark.

Excerpt from Breathing Spells, 2024

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