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Letters from the Unsuspecting

My own dear,

Lovely, whose bodies are not meant above all for preservation, for regimented evasions, agreed-upon limits and infractions of discipline, for insulation from that which threatens and makes borders apparent, forms taut arcs and high curves into cause for complacency. Do not be fooled by newness of summer heat, of neat words stretched into uniform lengths of moments, and pauses let to drop, to float, to hang in air.

Let us not be enticed into such vain progression, such points plotted and known commonly or easily, and - to be truthful - even considering briefly this possibility, even mere suggestion of such a leveling of grace sends me back to a tracing of edges, of fingertips grazing (more than once) ghost marks left on blotter. As if waking saturated and deeply from a dream, having already grabbed at its sensation, greedily, and lost vaguely in its approximation. Oh, I revert to what I only piece together in frantic and vague recollection - of the pulling close in those last moments. Though in this way it cannot be doomed - what might I want more than to slide my fingertips along the curve of shoulder or hip, or through lovely black hair, what I might want more than immediate solving of imminent mysteries which will then (so precociously) be devoid of promise and will have become routine...

Let us not project these movements forward - simply issued in a flow from point directed outward, landing onto what graced creature may happen to idle at the spot of your convergence.

In this last long silence drawn tense between two points (the further by far the lovelier), have we not been the more callous, for intimations tossed easily and carelessly aside, proud of arrested impulses, of measured steps taken against forces of that which would draw in?

Have we not contrived and even unceremoniously dismissed this expanse, this vainly-measured distance, with a self-righteous averting of (and so shortly after discovering!) gaze, of dangerously resting in alignment - at last moments, ordering such controlled gestures and gingerly enunciating, intoning - are we not guilty of executing, and without mercy, of pronouncing ambiguous lines?

Would you not slide sideways and then seated, would you not have encountered and become closer into what consistently moves our hands into such proximity?
Have we not worn exactly these gloves, and in each other's absence, simply displaced their gestures into the arms of another?

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