Maybe, I presuppose, they’re…wrong?
Steven Estok and I compared the hands, fingers, and eyes of our lovers. He would rock back and forth, and say, “I loved it when the hands would tremble. They would tremble. When they tremble, SOW.” How do leaves tremble?
We took naps on the couch. When we woke, we would forget it was winter.
“Why always the fragile ones?” I asked Steven.
“Men ask this, continually. We do not know.”
A question I’d ask ask Alex, though he’d never think to taste like that.
“I am more afraid that the parents were right; the mystery will not out itself, because there is no mystery. There is no otherness. No otherside. No inexplicable. Only a spectrum like on a menu: pain, and on the otherside pleasure.”
“Then we must eat bread, and drink water, and get 8 hours of sleep,” said Steven, rocking.
