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| hands: first, a little back story: the ritual I saw the morning her door was open, in the apartment we shared with some other friends: she lifted with deliberate, concentrated, squinting slowness her hands with the palms out, fingers curling as they were raised above her sleep-curled rumpled hair brown to her shoulders, then pulling them apart at apex, straining against like some boxer shorted black T-shirted mime, dawn still scared of her window. �light movement of breasts as stretched her arms out to level of her ears, laughed a little when she saw I saw her and what was she doing? �but she left a note on my windshield with blue ink explanation: I have to pull apart the dry ordinary of day, pull myself up inside a morning I like more.� make sense? �it did, because a week later, staring horizontal at alarm clock green I got up and went to her door again, callout out "wait" when she was pulling that other morning open, "I want to go there too," and she held it curled fingered for me, eyes still closed, the tear evitable in imaginable space, then pulled it down around us, pulled us up into, different new, clearer, in it she was kissing my lips, in her made-believe morning. | ||