It rips me each time I tear away from you, I leave something of this newly created world behind again. I don't want to feel this pain, I'll do it only this one last time. Then again, and just one more time. And maybe once more. My skin is raw.

Today the very first ripened Ballardia of the season, a pink taste in my mouth. Some time later astringency at the back.

...I leave something of this newly created thing on your shirt. I long for you until the sun goes down or until I find something to preoccupy me, and I am no longer inside you. Free of you like fish are free of the shore.

I forget that I am going to feel this pain because I lived so deeply inside your tunnels. The bright night swims down to me, I burst like a fish into the rocks beachside.

I burst like a fish into the rocky shore, tearing across a plateau, on my way back to the ocean. Forget I ever said this? It is there, it is here, it is in a bowl at the back of the fridge.

Jesus rises fresh and dripping still magically opposed to death, as if it makes things any easier.

Jesus sinks and I am left alone on the surface, looking all around me in confusion.

I'm ripped open each time I leave you.

The stiches rip the skin around the wound.

Stitches rip out of the skin of my wound each time I leave you. I cannot keep doing this, this is the final time I'm going. Then once more, then once more and then one last time. By then I'll be healed.

the world you showed me is really perfectly a reflection. I'm suprised that I didn't notice it earlier, I think becauseit fits so neatly into this one, just there between the cracks and under the line