It's these curious bits that keep us human, these elemental acts that keep us tethered to the planet with one arm flailing wildly and the other extending some left over steak to the street kid, a hunk of heart to a new lover, pasting the globe with empathy and anger, like strips of sweet gluey papier mache. And it's always the timid spaces between the great gasps of gallantry, it's always the space between where you looked ahead and nearly looked back, the minutae of the she of then and the her of now, it's always the in between that matters most.

The in between of you and me, that hard space between limbs and the galaxy, that space in utopia where nobodies arm collided with a rib or crushed a breast, and everything was always lovely and nobody is ever hungry, and violence is a pinata in sundrenched southern california subdivision, in that space where hunger is an abstraction, and thirst some antiquated torture, save the thirst you spark in me, the thirst you can't slake, save that hunger, when I am not hungry, when I am not thirsty. How can you not drink from the fountain, to wrap yourself good and tight in the candlelight, and the lamplight, heated in my own skin, heating yours, friction and fire, getting lost in the space between us when we are navel to navel. In that space farewell to all you rapacious republicans and feckless democrats, good riddance to all the freaks beating children and using puppies as drug mules, and the entire middle east and by extension iraq, iran and afghanistan, you all have gone collectively cuckoo von fucking nutsville, because in that space, deep under the covers and sublimely oblivious the only thing that matters is the alarm that will jar you into the reality of the work day.

My resources have dried right along with my tear ducts, all of these people and their disparate and criminal agendas have sapped my sympathy and made me covet the silence and direct complicity between your navel and mine, your mouth and mine. And that is the space that I choose, no guns, no politics, no famine, no thirst, only the sweet satisfaction of finishing the night and starting the day, defiant and freshly fucked, and that my hurricane eye was somewhere approximate to your navel, and I will be late, but I won't care. And in the space after the space between us I will be glad of my empty bed and the solitude of familiarity, and I am glad of my weathered furniture that presses on me, and the cool of my sheets when they envelope me. I will press my cheek into the cool spot and no doubt start to dream of geometry.