intimate fragility, shared, living on whispers:
surviving in hand-drawn hearts. its pulse
fluctuates, spiralling into alien depths;
we want to exonerate it from purpose:
remove the parasite. yet, in the same moment,
our desires are broken. what joys could we have
if they were not juxtaposed by schism?
the waves crash against a battered hull,
we ride like Jason through the crashing isles,
our dove losing more than few feathers, though;
the storm, we realise, abides not only at sea
but rages in the off-key
beating of two hearts.
