Transubstantiation Tobi Cogswell
To be hungry is to want to chew your heart out and eat it for dinner.
I am moved to have it. As bread needs salt‌
and that is my wildness for you. Slowness descends upon the languid night sky, frosting the lights with buttercream chilled to mad proportions. I watch my own hands reach for your face like time-lapse photos of opening peonies. In winter it is hardly to be believed. Lie back with me and watch the fire-smoke make eye-level thunderclouds tumbling East. I will be a ghost silhouetted against the bright, my baser metals a gleam in the alchemist’s eye as I dance from the flames, unheard music thundering just below the horizon. Yes, I am hungry for your heart.
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