the body is a loose powder longing through the rooms, vacant mountains of chills. bare chest- a throbbing slitting moan. the moon kisses and watches over linguistics of a body. decoding cacophony of amorphous substance. unwrapping a flower- the body is dream, you must say. it slips and sticks to the wall- a whorl of pink tongue. I sit and produce words during the daytime as I watch over my window for a twig to be stuck to my throat- instead I have maroon dreams and floral nights - sore limbs now, sore words- I shift to a different paradigm, I shift to lotus from rose. The arrangement of bones has a purpose now.