2001-10-02 || 11:56 p.m.

|| movietone ||

pretend this is a movie: absently pushing teeth mark bruises on inner arms like they are buttons on and off and on and it doesn't hurt really, just conjures up visions of blue and black and

evidence

not making it any more meaningful. not reversing the process of delicious impact to purple to blue to yellow to nothing.

there are scenes in the apartment. sitting perched on an unmade bed not noticing the cracks in plaster and stains on carpet and snags of the threads making up curtains because of the proximity of another. there is in/exhalation and the lining up of fingers, five plus five others a bit longer and more masculine. freckles mapping out veins winding. tendon and bone and secrets inside. the tensing of fabric and muffled voice and heartbeats racing toward synchronicity but not really finding it. sternum and clavicle familiar although hidden under skin.

pregnant pauses

and sweeping down stairs one after another. stopping because there is more to it than just eye contact. erasing words with mouths but in a different way. in a feverish languishing way. not being able to catch a good solid nourishing breath for some time after. focusing in on the evidence that unlike a bruise cannot be seen: smells caught in fibers. half empty glasses. echoes of words that change everything, but memory is deceptive.

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