You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman


of skins and satellites

I PEEL AWAY your layers, one after the other, delicately. Every contact a calculated, purposeful touch, like how a whisper would stir the still air. Your eyes say ‘you know me’ but I find only skin under your skin. Surface beneath a surface.

And now I am conflicted for every movement contradicts itself. A step forward, and then back, vacillating between possibilities reminiscent of how tides retreat back to sea only to rise on the other side of the world.

Your gravity is much too strong, drawing me in while the same force that makes me revolve around you pushes me away, in equal strength, pinning me at this particular point in space between a push and a pull. I am stationary.

You look at me from such a distance, and I look at you from such a distance - a pair of cosmic anomalies that will never become one.

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