I have this thing I do, sometimes, when you're asleep. I take a magnifying glass to the skin along the inside of your wrist, press my face close enough until the thread of blood there blooms into a thick and writhing organism. I stare into the vortex of each pore until I'm pretty sure that there's no solid color in the universe, that you're a horrible, ugly, porous boy who's ruined Newton and great art and all of that forever. When you wake up, I am careful to balance my forehead an atom away from yours, to hold my breath until your eyes open and become one eye, until that eye becomes one black, swimming thing.
And honestly, I am sorry: that you are so beautiful and cool, that I need some antidote to you. When you speak, I want to able to hear the thrush of kept air escaping along with it, stale and ancient, my name.
(ps painting by Ian Francis)
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