move

Move with the changing hours of the sun and through the smog's thick breath – an exhausted atmosphere awaits on the horizon before the morning light even rises,

Move deeper, excavating further, clumsily, though the sediment of our stacked histories, mismatched in shape and size, uneven when they rest side by side,

Move through the seasons of your body as you get to know your new contours, as you change through and with time, with difference in each iteration of your step, blind to the ways in which you remain familiar to a body that still remembers you,

Your hand extended your body extended your horizontal lines moving, drawing possible futurities.

Puppeteer,

pull

these

three

strings

taut

Move not just with but like the creases of this couch, slippery and ever changing with every sit and lie, like the light folding into your hair,

Move like the stream of water behind my hand,

Move with the tides and greater currents beyond this sink and its hushed, small narratives,

To be closer to me, move closer to me to make the world and its work smaller, to make the contours more knowable, to know whether those are grains or if my hand is covered in scuttling insects.