That first cough of language. Whether dyed in a hue of flirt or poetics or musical accompaniment of jukebox song. When you know. When you know because your body is churning like a washing machine and limbs feel close to understanding their lineage.
That time you saw me minus all my scars and I saw you beyond gender prescription.
“Hey, when you were on stage and you talked about hair, I thought about my own symbiosis and how often I felt the need to disturb its length and texture. Hey, you spoke my language. Hey, I love you beneath that wig and the glitter that will travel from your skin to mine later tonight and how about I show you what I mean by all this through my ability to remain. Hey, your erotics reveal tragedy in a way I can orgasm to and I haven’t been able to touch parts of me because I just didn’t know how to approach the distance. Hey, I’m so grateful you failed death and I need you to be alive like the moon, even when it needs to hide some of its parts; it still glows and you glow.”
That moment right before experimentation of addiction. Choose from any of the above. To be able to say: just don’t.
Every time I have sipped on a body that I chose to learn. The fluency of flesh and how sometimes it feels like a floatation device, saving me from this drown.