my priest

In the summer they become the wind

I know, or think I know, enough to understand that meat is flesh and flesh is leather. That warm illusion of living skin, blurred into the image of being.

They are dead, yes, and just pass by, drifting down a dimly lit corridor until you notice. When I let the thought linger a moment too long in the air of my thoughts, i could then melt back into the obvious.

Of course, of course, you won't be able to see them. Not really, not as long as you still believe in the end; because here nothing behaves as it should and everything is delayed.

It's not time yet. It's not yet time for me to sit on this crowded balcony, which lets the sounds of the street and the stifling heat into the apartment.

There are still distances we haven't touched. Full conversations between one thought and another, between the eye and what it perceives. And in this space, just before everything becomes too saturated, I can feel it. The contours of other places that gently press upon us, whole worlds awaiting.