Anatomy of the Fog Alorde

In this misty place where hunger finds us seeking direction, I am too close to you to be useful. When I speak, the smell of love on my breath distracts you, and it is easier for me to move against myself in you than to solve my own equations. I am often misled by your familiar comforts. The shape of your teeth is written into my palm like a second lifeline. When I am fingerprinted, the taste of your thighs shows up ontlined in the ink. They found me wandering at the edge of a cliff beside nightmares of your body. “Give us your name, and place of birth, and we’ll show you the way home.” I am tempted to take you apart, and reconstruct your orifices. Your tongue, your truths, your fleshy altars into my own forgotten image so when this fog lifts, I could be sure to find you tethered like a mare in my heart’s yard.