He keeps finding these incorrect spaces
little ribbon-veins tied around pink flesh
a coquette lifeblood flirting with the gaps
between heartbeats. There is not
something in this. The cavity aching for
His organs. The frivolity that was supposed
to be there. Instead, a currant seed of want.
He keeps finding these incorrect spaces.
Thin fingers. Nothing in between. Except
For the imaginary flirtations of another hand.
One that would pull back the webbing into
his fingers, and unevolve him. Until he was
soft, like tilapia flesh.
