if my memory is right
we are in my kitchen,
although it is warmer, brighter
than my kitchen normally is.

you have wild hair
& i unpick
the creases
where your skin
comes together

it feels like
pale fabric

on a rusty transistor
they are talking about
the tides.

all i could see

was the colour of skin

when it comes alive.

that translusecent hue

halfway between electricity

halfway between science.

my hands were tongue-tied

i wrote out instructions for viewing my work

you could not make sense

of this language formed

in the pauses between our thoughts.