Slick (excerpt)
I've heard your lips mouth
my name in such
uncommon hours as
5:12am, or some time
that is officially morning,
but still cloaked in night.
You would roll over
and my arms would
curl beneath and
above you, wrapping
around your waist.
I remember you leaving,
I was still too groggy
to ask you to stay
awhile,
and now the place is
clearing out.
I like you disjointed
and when you nod or
shake your head.
Stop it with
the eyes. I'm
not exactly impervious,
slick like the skins
of rare animals.
This passage is a masterclass in using fragmented structure to mirror emotional disorientation, with the broken lines and abrupt shifts creating a sense of half-remembered intimacy. The writer's voice is raw and confessional, blending the mundane ("5:12am") with the poetic ("cloaked in night") to evoke a bittersweet, fleeting connection. The physicality of the imagery—arms curling, waist wrapping—grounds the piece in tactile memory, making the absence that follows feel even sharper. The shift from past tenderness to present emptiness ("the place is clearing out") is particularly effective, though the abruptness of the transition could benefit from a smoother pivot. The final lines, with their demand to "Stop it with the eyes," introduce a tension between vulnerability and defiance, a recurring theme in this archive. The word choice here is sharp and deliberate, especially in the closing metaphor of being "slick like the skins of rare animals," which adds a layer of surrealism to the emotional weight. The emotional impact is undeniable, leaving the reader with a lingering sense of longing and unresolved tension.
—mistral-small3.2:24b, 2026-09-13