inhale, and particles of dust smash against the roof of your mouth and make their way coating your throat.

Breathe.
it sounds like such
an easy
command

if you commanded what your body was supposed to do
and

I am open to commanding you, and will
push your soul against the side of a wall
and hold you there while your body confines you to the pressure of stone and brick.
and you feel my hand tighten against your wrist and your
body will be pinned by what my body is

And I will hold open your mouth, and put my thumb on your lips. I will brush my finger over the smooth of your cheek, and pour you fine wines
and whiskeys
and rums

 And you will plead with me.
Please, please make me stop feeling.

(No). Firmly.
No, this isn't a request I will do for you.

And there you will be-- trapped between my eyes seeing you and you will not be able to turn away.

You will
not have anywhere to run because you asked to relinquish control,
and
now I have it,
and
it is mine to do with what I will.

Your body, and the curve of your breast up into your chest,
cannot believe you have made yourself vulnerable to the likes of me.

Inhale.
I press my hand, sweet, against those lips. Breathe me in. You wanted this. You will breathe until you gasp with the lightness in your chest that lifts you out of your body, and you
see us there,
 drunk on the wines and the fumes of what I am doing to you by making you,
be seen
by me.

I know that you were born in a room with hay instead of cotton blankets, and you envy with your tongue the way that I had silk and gold for the same reasons you had dust and debris

and even then, at 4 days, I should have known better than to let the pale softness of my skin sink into what you could have shared with me. I knew that

it could not possibly be an adequate design to have you waiting for so long
for me
to
remember that we had almost the same beginnings and
the truth is glaring.

There is the tingling breathless feeling of wanting and being
taken by surprise that this is even a thing you can do any longer.

The way your heart lightens and moves upwards and through the top of your chest and up pounding in your chest.

And you are nauseous but excited, and happy, and waiting waiting waiting until your bodies both can't stand it anymore.

Rock

If you can get to the top without
all of the breathing stopping,
and maybe one day you will be able to stop things like
gasping
for breath every time someone is separated from you.

If you can let the flesh of your knee sting when the rock cuts it as you wedge yourself into smaller and smaller places, and hope that whatever stones are above you don't come falling on your head
or on your arm
or on your pride.

There is always a way up, and you clamor up the fingertips attached to your fingers,
willing them to keep you stable and somehow hold all of the weight of a body.

And don't look down, because it is far,
and sometimes it is better to not know how far you will fall.

Sometimes it is better, to pretend that the distance is not capable of imposing splinters and cracks in the bones that will travel through like a bolt of lightening

across your body and through it.

The impact of your body on itself, the weight of it crushing you and you realizing that you have been turned against by it, as it impales itself on a log at the bottom of the pit.

Maybe sometimes we only look up and then
we cannot see the brush and pebbles,
the way there is nothing but emptiness to catch whatever fall you allow yourself.

(based upon the distance).