half a year of solitude

us rubbing against eachother
much like two deaf metals
misinterpreting eachother's vibrations
wavy confessions
thoughts and intentions
making them all collide and then rive
the next flicker of a first second

the little soldering we had passed
through the hell of my childhood
a little by your father looking away
and got us where we stand
- the closest there is to nowhere

open intervals yelling
forms of built-in horizons where
all occurrences melt and shape somehow
giving ribbed cotton texture results
all of our closed-lids children
splintering processed