Fever dreaming. Your body is intriguing.
We are there in the stillness between your breath and the silence of our heads.
Senses and scents. Your scent makes sense.
Your velvety-textured skin has a lasting moisturizing effect to the invisible damage of my damaged head.
Our sleepless night, both fleeting and eternal.
Can we please stay awake in this state of grace?
I know. We barely know each other’s last name. But, please, keep repeating my name while you pronounce phrases I’ve never dared to say.
Amidst the chaos of my head, I can’t help but imagine how you keep placing poppies in my hair.
Let’s lie under this fake aurora borealis with the crisp night air…
Yes. Please, keep playing with my name while I find solace in your dazzling ways and I’m framing you in my head, playing with my hair.
(The liberty of choosing you in my head and the geometry of the bed we both made, makes sense)
The languages of the light through our window…
The play of sunlight through the leaves.…
Flickering flames and the echoes of their names in our heads…
Will we ever free ourselves from the cage behind our blames?
Will you ever get tired of overprotecting yourself?
Can you hang in there? Can we please make another bed with the morning air?
You like my waist and my ways. I know you won’t call it a day.
Laws of karma and lame mantras. That’s not our fate.
You feel like reading a love letter and feeling the same way, every day.
Good spelling and fake signatures on cheap napkins.
A plane you are about to take and words that are about to be read, thousand miles away.
Does my name make sense? Am I framed in your head?
Will you come back to place a poppy in my hair?
Photography by Xiang Tiange
I share dialogues with myself with a lot of parentheses and suspension points.