a thread made of sap, a sap made of threads. v.2 [78W]

If the author of the week was an algorithm, and your heart was a sheaf not a sleeve, a patch made of particles, a drowsy knot of words, the things left unsaid drowsy in the rain, a gutter where the bugs make a home, your hand in mine, contours of comfort, and this tender world unravelling incessantly. If the gutter kept its census and the rain kept nothing, if what lived in the runoff had already lived in the lung, if the swallowed bacterium never left but stayed and burned sugar in every cell since, so that breathing is a lease with no landlord and the pronoun in your chest is a plural nobody counted, then the knot was always more room than rope, and unravelling was the method, not the loss. If grease knows a grime never taught, if fungus takes the alga in, if the same verb happens at every scale, then eternity is no vault, nor keystone, but a module, swapped, migrating, admitted, and the world unravels incessantly like a thread made of sap, a sap made of threads.