I want to touch you right there where my mother taught me to dab perfume. Pulsing cove, shadowed by velvet, vulnerable to tongue tip, pressed lips, parting breath. Your soft hair erect, nerves lit up, want me to reach through my hesitation. But again my hand falls to my side.
These are Only Ideas at this Stage
They stayed there, indefinitely, like biological sentries. Apparently needs appeared to herd themselves, like Army Rangers. Artists and writers at last finding real answers. Bad.
But what if, in the process, by growing thicker, or more efficient, communication, by tinkering, can answer them. Cells activated by an experience, certain memories, chronic, could be misused,
could erase, could make you critical. Distant childhood scenes, enhanced, entirely dark, erupt when one cell stimulates another. Explorers of the past fear for addiction, for centuries. For trauma.
Forget. Forget a strong disgust. Like a group of people joined, like malicious stalkers, memory could lead to an arms race. My dad, he’s dead now. Mysterious. Pinpoint the purpose
each one serves. Poems, possibly capture problems, racing ahead, attracting billions, raising questions. The answer, the discovery: the exploration of identity.