Or disguise your blood for mine — what it speaks to in the heart, the mutual land of ours that I've promised you alone. Discerning, along the vessel, a tributary drawing in to close the light down inside. You may be buried, you may be dug up, you may be far north of the warmth inside you, but don't disguise your blood for mine. The ground we share is one I stand alone on. The rivers flow south toward a warmth they nurture. They upheave, betraying the underground. Perhaps the differentiation you collect between our two hearts is a rope pulled laterally, swung absently, glacier-fractured in the allure, a song of crisis. Bound beneath us — a ground we share but do not own; its length is the decreasing degree to which we shift among paradigms. Two people in a room where grief lays on its side in the centre between them, while they circumvent what it means to picture love as something else: love as absence, as the skill of drawing close brightness and holding it in the heart, knowing while it burns it cools waters elsewhere, someplace deeper and somehow more urgent, more rare. I twin the function of the heart as seer, because I do not love you by my eyes alone; I seek in those moments when your light becomes hidden from me the warmth of your heart by tracing the currents of the rivers that flow between us, in the topology of your land and mine.
DoubleSpeak 