Is it in the slick endowment of flesh, the tide of fever that abides the balance of blood and humors, the stippling of sweat through sheer cloth? Is it in the ebb and flow of bone and muscle, the tussle of these wrecked continents, these hard consonants and feather soft vowels? Is it the ghost that rollicks through fine tethered features, the perfect roll of some haunted mannequin? Or is it that residue of dreams that leaves the floor mirror slick as it crawls like some horror movie trickle up those strong and supple limbs, seeing the innocent unopened bottle you taste the fist of the full on reeling drunk. Eyes and shadows, distance and the musk of containment, love as certain as that turn table hiss and pop, as sweet and sure as the memories of favored machines. Technology played backward until all need is unspooled, exposed. Glistening as only its own shine, there in that cherished ache of naked air.
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