Pain in dots, blue, white and brown, Water, salt and sugar, sweet, tart, two sea-salt-crusted

flats, flats of land, jammed, tidal ripples, You skimmed, thrown, blown into force.

I can't grasp myself, reaching to the black space in between, distance in body but not

mind.

How sublime it must be to think like he.

He is not me though, how I wish to be as simple and as free.

Birdons are a gift, thrifted from the greatest of he's and she's and bestowed upon me.

A sea to feel burdened by insecurity, the irony, a shame to have blamed that peach

nose and sphere world heart.

I know parts of you but like the world and its vastness, its beauty.

I have not tasted all of you.

You trapped and draped your silk skin around me, not him.

And silently I listen in.

I'm not over there, on the other side of the room one of the steel panels free-woken.

Sure, Daddyn, there's a light on the room there.

Tex, hold on, let's go see.

Well, at least we can hear ourselves walking out.

Do you like to make noise, might beat it before?

Well, that's something now, isn't it?

Look at that room.

Oh, Tex, what in that tract of little room?

I can stay in room on that white ocean line.

...