7.16.25

I want my hair to grow long like stalks of grass. I want to meet you there. Time gives into itself. To return to the body means a departure from every where else. Was there a body before you? Whose hands, neck, teeth, and lips? Once I wrote: 

Love is not the passing of time, it is time itself. 

Was I writing from the future or to the past? 

On the other side of language was supposed to be a door. You were supposed to meet me there. I do want the same thing, yes. This, now. That, then. On the clay ground I was born, seeking reunion. All of time is one long hallway, leading towards and away from you. Where is god then? She was there on the mountain, she was there on your lips. Oh heart. This part of me that loves and grows and shrinks, never taking a moment to rest. How to mourn nothing. The words fall like stones taken from the garden. Now that we've moved the stone, who will move it back? With my body I wrote a story only I believed. I turned my language back into body. Even deeper inside, I know nothing of where it went next.