My pronouns for Bubbles and will she go to San Tropez?

This appetite had proven too troublesome to whet, too voracious to tempt. I can’t stop. I’ll gobble up all the jokes and quandries, the little passed notes. My limbs will turn backwards and I will only look up - up at the artists, up at the scholars, up at the authors of renown and hiss, spit. My teeth will rattle loosened in their joints. I am no monster, but the question an answer begs. I am the impression of your temperance - to just taste, just try, just have a little. Restraint requires the image of excess, so I step behind the lens. Better it should be settled, I say. Better to be photographer than photograph.

"What are your pronouns?" is an oblique question, a way of asking, "Of what do you die?" You borrow the question from me and put it in flip-flops. Surely you are the one who needs this answer from yourself. Hasn't it always been clear, like the slime of my eyes or the lens of the camera or the spit glistening on my teeth, of what I die?

I learned in dance classes to lay flat on my back and exhale, imagining my navel collapsing into my spine. The possibility of emptiness is what moves the body and not knowledge of fulfillment. There is the possibility that the desires which coalesce as enfleshment are a wretched ecstatic emptiness, an aching gasp, an esophagus open, a reach which pulls the reacher off balance.

In the question we find a palpable silence. It’s a question better suited for you who is cursed to have words than I who is cursed to lose them. The closer they come to me, the sooner they escape in a force which enlarges, twirls, and entangles.