The balance of your soul on the tip of my breasts reminds you that there is one day left to change your gaze, my winter-painted thighs are the promise of twenty-nine dawns in February*. Let's burn other people's words to illuminate our dreams.
Let's leave blotches of skin on dirty sidewalks, fill with your ugly handwriting the notebooks destined to grow old for lack of stories; please forget the resolutions of love, erase the limits of our bodies in continuous shatterings of commissures, exhalations and sweat.
Calcined the expressions that hinder, exhausted our bodies, with the calendar hanging in the old look... I sanctify my forehead and in balance your soul.
*2016 leap year.
Photography by Tatjana Suski? Ninkovi?
I write to accompany; my texts enter what is broken, the everyday, and the hidden.