I once made maps of each my friends and lovers, flat things with shoals and borders transcribed roughly -- strange symbolic keys, terra incognito, hic sunt dracones, crossed lines of terrain. I once had a lover, butch dyke and whiskey, and we would take out our sexual frustrations on each other like every best friend wishes they could.
I came upon two women who had conspired to create a map readable to only the two of them, unlabeled. They chopped it up and had the segments scribed in tattoo upon each other's bodies at random. When they made love, as women love each other, wrapped up in sympathies, entwined, intersecting, a jumble on the ever-changing terrain of their bodies, I am reminded -- the waves of energy are only two dimensional images of what is dense and real.
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