The body keeps us artificially indistinct. For a moment I forget that I am not you. Beginning with the way the eyes upon you change your skin. I watch your skin, the liquid in your eyes, the softness you allow around you. I follow my own limbs, your limbs, the motion as you flex and keepsake how intention melds with what is felt and seen. A field of mercy spontaneously appears. I resist the urge to sever history from what appears to mean the quiet and revealing now. 

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