We are the wind; we gasp, and pulse, and race. In this heaven we exchange tongues, the wet screws of our universe, stick them anywhere – we are made of holes, begging whispers and oh unlock the muscles. Inside, inside, we are inside, we tense and relax, one breath, this moment; we two, all one mouth and hands in places hands need be. We are chasms between knotted shoulders, a bridge across arched lumbar, dents of the day beaten into flesh – we are flesh pleading its equipment unearth unearth from the friction of denim to the friction of skin and hair and the dead in us screaming to breathe. We wrap our strongest muscles in dark caverns, throats collapsing, we wrap tongues into bows, place them gently atop the oh beneath a thin sheet, and feel the wind.
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.