The riddle

To write, given the intent of doing something other than moving the bones;        watching the paper colouring black or blue with little signs or recollecting lingering flashes of the day or organising the future                    (:Blue Moon on Wednesday /              prepare your spell / please drink enough & not only the lemonades)                        not that any of it is invaluable; 

one has to uncover, unravel – undress if you will, peeling the skin off your chest, reaching for your guts & burn them ‘til white flames turn cyan at best. 

2. The thought of you is shallow.

I have taken my jacket off and since it’s winter, since it’s December I can feel the air around my body as if metal, still I only shiver, I don’t ache. 

But to write, given the intent to mean one 

mustn’t lie and to be honest

I can’t undress, it’s winter you remember. 

I miss you but before thinking this I already know those three words cannot capture what I feel, how thought is so unbearably intertwined yet separated from the feeling. 

I don’t know you; 

warmer, since very true (not anymore).

I want to know you.

To get behind the why I have to at least take my shoes & socks off.