Cori A. Winrock

Every spark is numbered. This one’s the first. This one’s the second. We seal them with the ecstatic limit. In the absence of waking to the other’s face we send each other songs for the morning. Let another’s voice stand in. What distance, far, always the night stretched too long. Standing under orange lights by the rolled-down window of your car, that in-between space. That touch, how seldomly. We cannot resist! So rend me to keep from holding back again and again. …