In the same dormant spaces we repeat ourselves in the second person, speak across their landscapes, their bodies and their rituals. Memories, bones, in the other(s) steps, in the others movement that cannot be written.

In this, I'm lying by them at night, this memory, in the same darkness, of ones body shaped into the one before, in the wind, the wooden beams overhead; both listening to the door as it knocks back and forth against the frame. The sound slowly soothes us, it brings us back to the present. The silence found and lost between. That in there seems an untraceable sadness, some place of recognition, that it too passes, knowing at the moment of arrival that we are at once shifting, that at once everything is becoming displaced.

Letters, salt plains, shadows, as they fall away and arch back again, re calling the shape, the residue, in that opening of the border.

Between such separations; is an unbridgeable division, between now and before, between what one is and is not; the parting or the movement. It all falls over the shape of an absence, the grave, the stone, of a partner recalled before one can recall, called, spoken to in the rhythm, or in the distance of ones voice. This is the heart of what is being said that will remain before itself, still in the wordless lips, or the motion of the letters; and not in what is being offered.

One state of order passes to another. Exhales. A faded article of clothing rests on a chair by the window. In the dim light, I can barely make the image out. It gently rocks, it seems to shake in the light that filters through from the street outside. Something becomes promised in the shape left worn - a web of separations and meetings, lines through the bodies of them both. Cancellings and openings, they see these fractions in the texture of the room around them, their heads, weighing on the sheets. In the same darkness, one watches the other watching, seeing the back of the eyes hidden through the threads of hair. Looking through the face that finds them together.

From moment to moment there is a body that is lost between, calling in the velocity of it all. Hands and fingers, ears following the folds and the breaths of the people outside in the city. Through the geometry of the city blocks, is the overwhelming shade of them, of the evening coolness, of the rubbish in the street, of the pale blue curtain that hangs over the window. I would miss them. Like that breath in the instant of departure, always one in a state of fluctuation, always on the very verge at which we may lose sight of it. They two, are at that point of being blind, that site of sightlessness. Murmurs, where nothing lives. Penetrations where nothing is fulfilled. Oblique to their own sadness that embalms them, their mouthmarks rise and fall like the same repeated tides.

The vow(el)s found and misplaced. White sand, skin, the particles of lives.

In to the spaces that ones sees before them, as we divide as time goes on, to the indivisible cell. The floor rattles in the waves above, the landscapes stretch and reform. The dry, smooth, parted mouth, the ribs and their hollows. One traces the others figure to their own, hold themselves to what they have recovered there.

Dylan Everett

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