October Prompt

Sitting on the shore, my back to you, your back to the ocean; to our left a crow looking to take off, to our right a beach squid catching some sun before slipping back into ocean; the waves lap against your lower back and my right hand, with my left hand on the shore, in the distance the green of sand dune life plays with the light.

Spoiled

Prompts

Why are we choosing stillness these moments?

fuck the mathematics out of me

I can distribute my weight onto my left hand, let it sink that bit into the sand, pull me left, become crow with me crawling onto shore, fly away.   I can distribute my weight to the right hand, roll my shoulder over your hip, become squid with me pulling my hips over that shoulder into a roll, swim away.   …   Thank you for holding.

Start with your words. Let them build in your chest.

Imagine, instead of a sneaker wave, a sneaker tapestry catches over us, rolling the whole rest of experience over us.   All our emotions are these hydrolytic channels - wrapping around your back, our sides, and my hands - freeing yours wrapped around my chest. Which you place where the world most constricts me. Freeing my hands from the pressure of the sneaker tapestry so they may find a place a hand may serve the moment. And we coninue this dance until we care for a place we carve entirely ourselves.   I watch you take off as the crow and swim away as a squid, diving through frames per second of my understanding, floating their shared reasoning and slipping through the network my meaning provides your meaning.   You are every filling lungs in my every living body. The rest of the poem.

Write the rest of the poem. One word only.

I just think I like you. It’s you, you’re a prime, It is me, Í’m a prime, and we’re factoring, we dancing.   You are my mathematics, and I love you.

You are one. Write nothing missing.

For one,   I was thinking we could start with the acknoledgment that tapestry did not land flush on your back. There was not just the texture of the tapestry, but the creases, the folds, the rocks and rare earth that made, how you threw out coughs of life just to cope woth the impact.   And now its here, beavering you. Finding you channels. The way you did them. This is just conversation. These are just words. But their my words. To you. That means something. You mean something; me. You mean me. I find a place to be something I can; me. Can, as a word, doesn’t have a main verb use anywhere else. This is “else.” In an accelerating world, Stillness is already “else.”   We can; be still.   The tapestry’s folds thrum the part where it first made contact with you. Every fold that falls on you - this one no exception - is another ionic tap on the chest from my back over your front finding our way apart.   Experience and partnership go on like that for some time.   That’s all, Nothing Missing

Nothing missing wrote back. :jumpscare: :hiii:

Not for nothing, what’s resonance?   Why does the unevenness of where the tapestry struck you like magic carpet and took us to this place and I pushed off of you and apologized for squishing you and you tell me no apology needed and we sit togerher a moment, just landing air. Breathe in that.   And we notice the places stillness cultivates hold space for what you see to tend to what “I” means.

What are you, a fucking internet?

cool | expanse | shade

That wasn’t a question.