we swoon with the thickness of our own tongue
when we say i love
we are exposed
we are full to the gorge with our own name
for solitude
on our own words
for misery and the need
the perpetual need
to be put back in our own shell

fingers on glass
an unmet glance
the strain of a hairsbreadth

“we are but skin around a wind”

we swoon with the thought of others
getting under the skin
getting caught
in the crosswind
getting under the tongue
of it all, all of

we are but skin
we are a wind

oh these creatures lost
in the storms
when i take my clothes off i feel
like a plastic bag


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