The after memory of a body as it shudders and shifts
A great escalation of breath.
Inked onto my skin, the scent of consciousness
Continuous to itself by illusion alone.
Clasping onto these moments. Elusive and insubstantial.
Neither fabric, nor thread.
A constant repetition — an almost incantation.
The barbarian at play, disregarding all rules,
Searching, cannibalizing fragments of you —
Scaffolding the present,
An endless layering of light, colour and essence,
Sensing an accumulation of detail —
The narrative of a bra abandoned on your bedpost.
The final arbiter
Of climactic impermanence.