#28

One should say something. That's how it's been written since the first sunrise. The hand that takes you down the path. Reclining for the moon. He was, I should say, not out to impress me. The wheel not partitioned into currency. I held my own, and stayed silent.

But was much besot at the press of lips, tracing for me the words on mine. One's mute resistance parting so readily for the petals strewn by spring, the perfect framing for evening gestures. Time as it dissolves into breezes. And yet I did not tell, even my heart, to beat.

As if every arousal were a sign of longing. Every breath shared, a recycling of the old stories. As if fingers brushing gently the ridges of my stomach were meant to touch more.

I am standing as still as a statue, to put it simply, raised on a turning dias, my erection following the path of seasons.