With hands reaching for her and his eyes reaching hers.
She's been begging him to say the words
With an unexpected arrival.
By mere suggestion she hopes to paint her insides the color of iron and her face with a fixed and nonchalant expression,
Amplifying the measure of distance between them that originated in particles and fractions of fractions of seconds and became light years spanning universal abysses.
By mere suggestion she hopes to dispense with the iron. It does not belong in her ever-changing and malleable insides of blood and thin, rhythmic membranes.
By mere suggestion she hopes to let herself act the vulnerability that pulsates through her and marks itself in brilliant red on her naked body.
Ah! What distance is there when she can understand the cosmos that reside within her?
Their distance is reduced to molecules even though his mind lies a world apart. She could never decipher the constellations that could navigate her through his troubled distress, because of her unwillingness to decipher her own.
But now she has been disemboweled by her own Scylla, and she has been enveloped in the emptiness and suffocation of her personal Charybdis and has come out barely alive. She is slowly and clumsily charting her troubled waters.
Still, she keeps asking him to say the words,
With hands reaching and eyes arriving.
Still, she keeps beckoning him to say the words,
With an unexpected arrival.
