Saturday, February 19, 2011

Angela Garcia

I touch the breath. With my index finger and thumb I gently press emptiness. Touch refers to heat. The hand with its loose expectant fingers while the pioneering index finger and thumb, their tips almost lightly touching, drink the sensation, deceived by the indefinable contour of that which is touched. They touch the thing struggling between them, the flame, for a short while a tongue held upwards, contradicting gravity and unhurriedly taking, drinking the air while its heart waves: a transparent night. But this flame is a drop, a substance, a circle at times like the almond-shaped eye of its indigo well, so transparent.

The fixed look in the flame builds another. One in each pupil, twins, with the same oxygen.

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