Enlazada (Interlaced)

Silence, half a world away, is broken glass underfoot. Whether traversed slowly and carefully, or at a run, you’ll cut yourself regardless. The only choice available is one of modality: fast and panicked or slow and aware. And the meaning you make of it; monstrosities are born from the womb of silence.

Time, half a world away, is the spectre of your hands on someone else’s flesh. Pleasantries, intimacies with a stranger, instead of me. Time becomes the the space between the tip of your finger and the curve of my hip. The gap that never closes. Time runs over glass, shredding itself into tattered spaces, stinging like come on a cut lip.

Desire, half a world away, is the crack of light beneath the door. Molars ground to alchemical dust in the interminable wait for assurances and consolations. The slap that comes too fast, the contact evaporated. The marks that fade too soon and leave their traceless ache beneath the skin. The need that feeds on the ligaments of patience.

Your mouth on her skin is a razor on mine.