Blood Ties

He'd glimpse her, the peripheral life of her; she lived in the corner of his eye. She passed-by, her face and form - tidal, a tug on his shore. Perhaps she was salt for his blood, spice for nomadic mitochondria that carried her silks and perfumes, salts to his earth when flesh grew dry and dark? He took a mind journey within the coiling tendrils of his pith and fiber. Capillaries traced her imprints, neuronal fingers tried to define her. He'd gladly walk into her marrow, metabolites clinging to her shifting shapes. A camel-train of visions travels his corded spine bearing incidentals, trappings. He plants glances among ganglia, feeds on a returning musk, until she walks among his thoughts. She is no longer a fantasy, no longer a salt lick of moth-threads and rain, but what she is - he could not say.