a person, that holy being that asks questions and promises much, a person falling down, ground down, into solitude, deeper than a silent kind of panic, unaware of its center pole. it happens. it happens to me, even in the velvet tufted beds of ecstatic love. if only there is such fraction of fire among us.
a person falling down that could be falling forever. more than down into the ungrounded. had I been just a fraction of love. it had happened. always the same experience through the skin, the master that cannot deny itself.
and that person was me. forgetting the progress of fire into ashes, holding my layers of skin. it steps over me, perhaps on me.
a person falling down in the solitude of kissing and dying. it happens in the love bed. it happens and ties my layers of skin into that falling and freezing up during Fall, everything attracts and rejects and gravitates, in solitude, as though birth and death was always there, cutting the edge of that volcano island where you climb till you forget the hour, and enter the mist of nameless fractions of rocks, liquid rocks of kissing. much salt of panic in the saliva yielding entirely before the tongue, the speechless gestures of the tongue.
there is. there is no speaker capable of that tongue. I agree with a crisis of clouds, and I pass, half naked half dark half none and much more halves contradict the idea of being possible.
as you drink the wine you come closer to humus
that solitude of being clay and whisper, even in the love bed and in the lakes within dormant volcanoes.
the sound or the music of a person falling down through every layer of skin till the sheer nudity of not knowing the ways or other ways of telling the story of a broken glass of champagne
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