Expressions of sin and illusions of desperation. We’ll go at it with bare feet again, when the sun is not too bright, while we make sure the wood under us doesn’t make too much of an annoyance. But what’s the story, anyway? You’re tempted to ask but scared either way. Afraid or the answer or the reaction? Could I tell you in secret? I’d say there is no luck in ever finding out.
Let us finish a conversation about whatever formality, probably non sensical, we were discussing at the dinner table while your eyes are ever so slightly fixated on my fingers fidgeting away the nervousness of my words. I’ll embarrassingly admit that sometimes, when I’m sure no higher power is thinking too grandly of me, I wait for your shadow to come and save the day.
We will bathe in infinite feelings of satisfaction while holding hands that do not belong to us. I think of you into existence, I invoke you, all the while I’m holding my breath. We’re only human, but wouldn’t you want to be something so grand? There are cracks on the floor your back on but began to look back at with fondness. Dig deeper into my words, into my letters, scratch for a surprise. Strange times to live in.
Fotografía por Cleo Thomasson