This countdown.
The freedom. The on counter shine
of glittered oxygen atoms
that adorn your hands,
your lips, your paper thin eyelids and transfers skin
to skin to skin like graffiti.
Charcoal on paper
is wet to touch and more permanent
than patchwork stories
shared in alleyways over a black cigarette.
I borrow you, and retell parts of your
body printed over with your life history under stairwells;
tight t-shirts offer a screen printed promise
words capitalised and commercialised.
You’ll pay for my breath
with wine and feel its affects on
your stomach, blooms in cyan in the sun
in false memories inside the movement.
It’s coming,
this change in currency and
inside we count down not the flakes
of gold, but the breath spaces in-between.
AndSoSheDid 