the red blooms splotchy patches of it 
underneath cotton furtively avoiding being seen 
avoiding its origin 
avoiding the hidden cache

the entanglement of our–

tremor in the words although they mean nothing
inconsequential it would seem
it’s not the syllables but their familiarity 
the terror of knowing breath and cracked lips

–bodies pressed together

face mirrored by the sink back at me from then
still the same shape and structure
no new colour to make out unless it is there too
beneath the layers

And knowing what it f(ee/e)l(s/t) like– 

harder and easier knowing that you do not know
and that the pounding bass is not catharsis
but is just sound
that exists devoid of narrative

		–to be against an unrelenting force 
		
	    that pushes deeper and pulls harder
moving as it pleases 
unyielding despite gesticulation
wrapping you in rayon
		
			  until the apex 

and its implosion in which
your head snaps backwards 

and falls off