You fit into me / like a hook into an eye

Gestures and words and postures can be lines that ring a truth, spun close with care or too loose with less. But beneath them all may be a truth that snags onto your sinews and floods your hollows. We replace it with talk, though while all those lines are cast about they furnish a case, preparing for its demand to be unbound. I held one, some few nights ago. I felt a slow truth rushing into my corners. It was a warm hand pushing through a window. A truth, one of myself brought by another, or no, of another that brought me myself, or both. Truth, sewn from desire. One that slips along another's movements, their bend, the curve of their thoughts, the life beneath their voice.

Strange, that desire reveals our truths and, once revealed, enhances that desire. Its needle makes a puncture in our geography. And, once there, it is all you draw from. So much that, when another makes their turn towards, the moment explodes in you and the world freezes, hot about your neck. That unbound moment comes when they look at you, if they look at you, their eyes open on you. Black caves to crawl, with flecked mountains of glossed brown mapping towards their center. But only when, if, they are looking at you. I had some thing to show, but the eyes were not there. Under a lamp there was only dark hair and a light shoulder. Some few nights ago I sat outside a moment that was not mine, hooked to what I was unfit to climb. The truth held around a corner, and I only spoke days later, but only to myself as I circled through the cloud left in my house. In our pooling quiet, we plunge closest. Words circle a well.