Fruits of skin

 You my When. Centimeter from absence. You look out the window and there is no behind. No movement. Nor landscape color. Thoughts pass. Backwards. Hair says it is head. Of shoulders. Of kisses. Of language. They are collected in the palm of the hand. Fruits of skin. They are harvested. Like the accounts of pain. The accounts carried from the kisses. With debits. Accounts of no to war. The said and secret. What is written that is only erased. The space, the branches of the tree, the hugs, what is expected are erased. Very slowly the parts, the circulation, the speech of nothing fade.

Sense, then ex-isto as hypo/thesis.