yesterday only shoulders available and tomorrow knowledge will be the same: sight of shoulders, carved from ice or rock, easily differentiated by touch. but with only this
vision of shoulders, slope on which neck grows, one has to guess the substance, chaffed smooth by cloth; maybe we start by
turning. when you turn, it is always the impression of temporary rest and majesty, seat of bone which breaks plain sight and plan seeing. if I could
possess shoulder strength then the whole arc, which carries will also funnel elsewhere—
freeing arms, feet, seconds— so then, when you finally turn, tautening a stretch of neck into linearity, I will know from glimpse of shoulders
to meet your eye.
how pure your outline is. utterly confused, my eyes affix the split moment hair contacts shoulders – inducing tenderness, inseparable from the held head: the mind.
in the end it is this memory that is always magnetised; glass ceiling against which all balls bounce. falling, their sound is the profound betrayal of not being able to recreate you, the always feeling like a child.