We take little parts of others with us along our travels. Once we leave those people, we secretly/forgetfully/forcefully take those parts with us in our pockets. Whoever is left lessened by the taking of their person, it is unbeknownst, like the dust particles lying on top of the surfaces of their epicenters. They don’t miss their dust.
Some of the trinkets include stabbing thorns, things better left alone, or out of your pocket, for the sake of holes in your cloths. If you find yourself with one of these thorns, how best to proceed? Study it, throw it away immediately, eat it, give it back, etc.
I wanted to study my thorn bush. I named it Afton.
In a spotlight filtered red, I brought the examining chair up to dangerous levels. Close enough to kiss my lips. The same kiss occurred two months ago, and now it will reoccur every second of the day. That is the curse of studious voyeurism.
Prick my finger on every thorn, drawing blood made invisible by the light. How much blood have I lost?
Substances flood what is left inside, dyeing me the color of black, overflowing my innards into a pool of reality and fiction, coexisting forevermore. We are after the fact, but within fiction eternally.
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