Under shroud (and with bodies like towers of shapeless birds,) would you ask me if I had a hand i could pull through time. you tell me which tendered strings i’d have to pull to get a throating. if forgiveness were exemption, you’d have said everyword to get me off. what is this. i can’t even put my mouth around it. my hands on it unwielded and misshapen tried beyond trying to unravel you off a chaise lounge. here we are on a staircase again. touch don’t touch me anywhere. if it was alright this (once upon a) time, open palmed and find myself undid. counting back twenty six twenty five four three two and maybe that’s enough to not press butterflies into the earth. one twenty nine teen eight and not spread and not thin. y eight and fists and a single finch with weight to carry to find my way back to you again.