I am all fifteenth-century, the ghost of Ikkyū, a riot of pulse, watching half-blind your silks and cottons hit the floor. The wine here isn’t full body, it is bitter twilight, and you honey it – it carries darkness easy, carries fewer knives. Goose-flesh breaks across trellised ribs, my animal fingers hunt heat, every cleft and the forest of your hair smelling hōjicha tea. Sightless in the needle-light of stars we bloom and bloom and bloom, burst from soil, sweat, blood, we bury the sun in our graves. Do you know what it means to finish? It means we leave the bed perfect disarray, pour more wine, start again.
Espen Bosch is a bear that lives in a hotel. He works in a library, researching the meaning of free time, adulthood, and vestigial organs. He hopes to one day discover a way to become a tree. Until then, you can follow him @grizzlytemper.