Take my hand. Turning into birds we fly this way. Spinning in tight dances. Taking turns at the wheel. Pulling into places. Opening palms. Reading stories. Tapping into blank spaces. Wheel, dances, way. Birds, tight, turns.
I don’t want to take his hand. My skin is on too tight. I’m allergic to sweat. My elbow doesn’t want to bend. Bend, sweat, tight. There’s sand in my eyes. Clouds peak out between the drops of blue. Leaves fly away from the trees. Sand. Peak. Drops.
I don’t want to take his hand. The drink has worn off. The tired starts in a chair. Music sets my teeth on fire. Fire. Chair. Off. The wind is another reason for hot air balloons. For kites. For sails. Sails, reason, wind. Take his hand.
Take my hand. I don’t want to take his hand. Hand my take. Hand his take. To want. Don’t I? Blend colors? Green touch? Thin. Stretch. Clouds are dances tight. Wheel the places into stories reading. Tight to. Sweat to. Bend to. My eyes blue of trees. Don’t I take his hand?
I want him to take my hand. Twisting my wrist into his wet. My hand takes him. Pulling his smile past his teeth. Teeth. Him. Wet. I don’t want to take. As my fingers curl. Nails in palms. Ripping thin. My take. Life’s too long. Flowers whither. Getting thin. Take my hand in him. Twisting. Pulling. Teeth. Stretch. Turns. Drops hand. Hand. Hand.