I cannot characterise this. We move through each other like seasons – enclosed, outclosed – always one another and yet never – one another. My discoveries at first were catastrophic, measuring light against dark, and I was unhinged in some monumental way. There are colours that betray my lust; you unweave, thus complicate them, like some multilinguistic beast. (I say this because I mean too many things.)

I mean at first that your languages are sea creatures to me at times, with liberally spreading jaws and yet, my destiny is somehow not this element in time, not this in space, or worse yet not in the calumny of these tears. Still my fears have become someway bound by you, as if  I were making a confession to myself, expectations collapsing softly into heaps around my ears. The clash that we are is what we are. Such is what brings me near, I know, for from the past I see that this is so.

Given this our offspring by which we are moodily bound, we race windily over the same plains, down the same valleys, at length meeting like some hypernotion on otherwise incongruous ground. Do you have me? Yes, you have me now. You have me no more. Everything is an instance. This is precisely what is pleasing. You spread and thicken before my eyes like lava. Between us there are some startling memories. I recall you, some specious glittering on your neck I want to bite, some blood that is mine but that I have never known. Perhaps this is too egocentric. I have always wondered but it is inexorable now.

You continue to unhinge me – not all around, but here and there. I am at once a river and a flood, a leaf and fossil, a cunning witness and a whore. We unfold in a way that is continually evocative, like a cave. Passing lately no one else so sundry, I am at times naked and at times agnostified. But I am at all times the way you leave me, from one encounter to the next.