The urge to hold the world in hand,
with interlocked gears independently revolving within your palms.
I can feel the shift of the earth within my bones and the wind is my blood,
My breath is as solid as the weight of the earth against my feet.
My imagined words punch the respirating pulse
and cat-eye stitches lacing across silent lips
a cold war fueled by the induction of impotent heat
lying beneath our surfaces.