Edge

I'm gathering up skins I'm gathering up skins and blowing them up like balloons Breath-filled and moving about in a docent daze A fleshless meandering An organless freedom A sharply delineated fog An airy ego A warm cloud Skin making form as air pressure from both directions How long does the body last without organs to fill it? What does the body want except to pass blood Through tiny vessels and keep the whole shape intact? I wanted to fill you up with my exhalations And drink out all your flesh But keep your bones and skin still flawless And blow through the tiny opening in the top of your scalp Until all there was, was a perfect you and a perfect me And breath and shape and pressure And I would be the breath And I would press against the back of your eyeballs The root of your spine The back of your teeth The small of your shoulders The inside of your navel The slippery side of your throat Your vocal cords Your voice box Your Adam's apple Your cheeks And my breath would fill your lungs until it felt like your breath And when you spoke, you'd have a voice that was not quite you And not quite me but something rubbed through both of us "What am I but an edge?", you ask me "What am I but an edge?", you ask me