where the throat meets the back of the tongue before breathing, the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, an anxiety that stops all confessions, stops all lies. each lie is a confession from another life, of bricks crumbling away, tired of pressure and time, hard red morsels by our feet. we sit crossed legged in the sun while the wind whips our hair and keeps us from meaner things that gather broken bones and set fire to them. embers jump, carried off into wild sunsets without effort while the crackle of marrow splits the sound of dusk. somewhere in between all of this, dry lips and longing, sand finds its way underneath our fingernails and we close our eyes before they steal everything.