Electricity

It doesn't take much to move that feather. Breathe in and it draws nearer. By instinct. By design. Breathe out and it recedes. Tracing the orbit of pale reverence. At what is the filthy truth wherein I bathe myself. The hour. So sharp as it draws across thin skin. The minutes. Frenzied needles moving like pistons.

I like to remember. Picture what I still can. A cheekbone in mid-swallow. A fingertip about to breach. A zipper coming undone. Be the lamb to their lion indefinitely. The cloak of lust slowly parting to reveal humanity.

So empty. And yet incandescent. The vacuum of potential light that draws all atoms close to it. Close enough to reveal what was always there.