It all comes from the same thing.

these pages are rectangular, colorless and sharp like the edges of the box in which they are hidden. this place where the yielding flesh of a woman is reserved and protected from the acrimony of a bitter world. and through my beveled glass the view is obstructed and time is complicated happenstance. many stolen years are misplaced and labeled as hygienic experience and dropped to the floor as lessons learned.

the link to you is glaring with putrid light and i force myself to turn away from this want, for you don’t owe me one thing. these debts are my own from some territory in pasts overlapped where the sky was a different shade of quiet gray. so we begin again with the cyclical movement that reflects the seasons, knowing that offspring will hatch and sprouts will return from underneath the dirty ice. we wake and wash and stretch and breathe with the knowledge that the sun often rises to pay us back what we have earned.