words

My hands make valleys

On your skin, your hips and your thighs

As I run my fingers along the curves 

Of your immaculate form

You writhe, 

We wake up, our eyes open for the first time

And from that moment on is an endless stream of incoming sensory stimuli, that the brain has to process, compress and store in real time, so that we may continue to be. Every particle, every wave. Existence. 

Move forward in time, we cease to be. There is no more processing. What do we become? What happens to that energy that spins at the center of consciousness? Surely, it must dissipate back into the infinite soup, all components stripped to their bare elements, beyond the sub atomic, beyond the quantum, into the unknowable. And then what?

The trees encode shadows on the ground.

2024sm