From dreamswept fuckscape
you surfaced to skin.
From sleepsunk night
through half hidden borderlands:
the interstitial spaces of want and have
to the flatlands of a needsome Now,
and found like all surfacing, the superficial
safety of non-committal
pales beside the depths of mingled DNA-
where we exist at truest,
Where communal histories dance
in millennial veils.
Dreams, our clothes at their most naked
and in the awakening we feel
all surfacing a lie-
and yet, where we intersect
at the boundaries of sentences and skin
weaving ourselves to the depths of us,
searching for the other,
we imprint our loves
on the descent into us,
drag the ghosts of our impressions of them into cores
where bodies cling to crusts
and intellect slips to the mantle of our being.
We make phantoms of ourselves
and bind ourselves to myth.
We live tangential to life
pulling the edges inwards,
acquiring skins to consume,
ingesting all surface out of desire.
Inwardly tumbling in gleeful freefall
to the half-dreamt marrow of our souls.
But we are not there,
we only exist at the margins.
We are all surface.