The bones of his back almost broke skin. Hipbones like a models seperated by ink; a quote he's always favored stratigically placed above the line of jet black pubic hairs. I felt the capsules of bones stacked on top of each other through the thin skin, my arms wrapped around him, our hipbones touched, clashing and saying in signlanguage, "friction".

I had no idea what to do next but he was focusing on the glow of our bodies in the yellow light, too oblivious to my gaping mouth. I felt international. Making unheard of sounds, diaphragm deep, translated into English would mean "spoon" or "disaster" in a South Africa. Our minds were already there.

Release and the future is no longer bleak. I was made optomistic, living for the present, not future (or worse, past). I gave the gift of new world view and healthy experience to change for the future. Which is now. And now.

Ripples and ripples, I'm still not positive on what was what, but I think that bird was really him. That field of dead bushes was his hair (at least I hope). Those trodden paths could only have been the shadows of his muscles and lack there of. The airplanes in the sky spelt out a message with it's white smoke, Times New Roman, it was right between his hips, level with my eyes, I read it in the sky and it said, "Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes."


Whiplash, or just a slap in th face, my cells contracting. Rosy flesh amongst yellow walls contrast like me and him. Bold intentions and sayings and a molded mind stuck in the present (still beneficial?).

My toes crack, and minutes later are ready to be cracked again. The sounds comes from below us and all I fear is that he thinks it's from deep inside my womb.

With my toes, air pockets, and hardwood floors, I say in Morse Code, "If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things."