we hang on to the day and to the hour. we cling to it in the hopes that it explains whatever followed it. in a land of unfinished businesses and interminable longings, the date and the hour hang listlessly in an eclipse, setting out for an exit that disappears, unfailingly.
(tap that blood.)
(look at the teeth, all picketed and dark.)
(you are thirsty for departure.)
strangers come together and seamlessly fall into warm conversations, but not us, not us. we sit in retreat, quiet and unapproachable. the condensation from the tea cup falls on my hand, on my lap. i am dressed in black so it doesn’t show, but i feel the moisture seeping through the fabric, where it reaches my skin and feeds it. i am not alone with this water.
we keep our wrists thin and bent for you, in circles and in servitude.