I don’t want readers.
I want witnesses
bodies attuned to the heat beneath the words.
Breath syncing to the rhythm I leave behind.
This atmosphere wasn’t made to be skimmed.
It was made to be entered.
Not explained.
Only touched.
Only felt.
You either feel it, or you drift past it.
If you feel it, you’re already inside.
And the words…
they’re already inside you.