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Updated: Feb 15

and the window speaks to the flesh in these clothes conveying a pulse a remembrance of what it was like to be against the nerve endings of the other whose wondering lips were not felt as anything other than a proactive searching for a life made to live through the touching the elephant takes shape in the sightless fingers caressing its hide blossoms from a relative nothing into a something multifarious incipiently known as this or that from these or those positions on or of the body who am I without your impressions on my skin without your curiosity to name me what I am without your weight over my own to press me down to make of me a world alive to sense this blindless pane on sable nights it renders me

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