How is it you know that white is the right color for the desperate throb she felt in a young boy’s touch? Her response seems to have lived on air alone, quietly enduring in its perfect cage until now.
The door is open. Inside is the abundance of everything that will go on without you.
Her’s a scream of pain smothered by a small man in a dark baggy suit, and there’s white, taken as a pure object, attaching to a landscape, which takes up residence in your shoes.
She spends her day searching for him–white shirt, white shoes, white heart. But the young boy has changed.
The bowl of dreams, wet on the table. “Let me in,” you whisper. You are trying to remember your names.
Tarred boats against stucco walls, the eyes of a Moroccan cat, impatient passport smiles, and all the new desire that arrives with the morning of words. And for a moment yet, the fading light of the departing lover.
You must want to be like this. You must want to praise the next quiet moment eased in upon itself like a single gnat becoming the world, like white dreams lifting over the mountains.
You must know that nothing will hold still and this, the smallest of gifts, leads everywhere. You must want to be everywhere.