The Doorways are built for the lingering.

and Hypnos kisses my palms.

In the doorways we glimpse secrets we never thought we would know. They are built for the lingering. They are vessels full of knowledge. They are for the voice and the silence. The telling and the keeping. They are for forgetting and remembering. Doorways are built for the lingering. The remembering. They are portals, tracing the edge of suspension. They tempt, and I am a sailor lost at sea, lost on desire. The doorways are like the flickering of the candle— the candles have taught me all this time, how temporary my body truly is. The doorways are like the sea, on the edge, an unconscious fantasy begins, and the sea, she wants you flat on your back, tender, panting, and the sea she wants you, filled in remembering. In the doorways, I glimpse secrets I never thought I would know. Like how I saw my mothers hand turned up towards the ceiling like a freshly bloomed flower, experiencing its first breaths bathed in tender glow of moonlight. I, child of holy messages, my first look at god the cross hanging around my grandmother neck and the man on the stone steps, smoking his cigarette. The doorways are built for the lingering. They are intimate portals of remembrance. They are fragments of an existence. Last year, in the ruins of an abbey, I walked through a doorways with no sides, no top, and still I felt the gentle movement between here and there. Doorways, built for metamorphosing between once and now.

The night purrs and I cannot sleep. I tantalise myself in longing. My mind wanders through my labyrinth prison, designed by the one who watches back at me in the mirror. The half moon glows honeyed outside the window. Whispers of deep clouds wander like lost trails of smoke. The half moon glows honeyed outside the window. And the night purrs, deeply—-- I mistake it for silence. I mistake it. The night purrs, a slow melody stretched luxuriously. It is gentle. Soft. Presses its cotton palms against the stomach. It runs cool fingertips along the spine. You feel it drift against your mouth. The night purrs and it tempts. Hypnos comes to hold your palm, but is only truly interested in what the lines have to say. Keeps you awake while tracing the lines, their lips opening, closing, on the verge of speech. The night purrs and Hypnos kisses your palms and you hold your fingertips out to the shadows that hold so gently. And the nights, like the doorways, are built for the lingering; the remembering.

The night purrs and Hypnos kisses my palms.

Beatrice.