People and their habitual ways and the cracks and tectonic shifts that keep us moving. Watching the incense dance to the rhythm of my speaker, it sings to the wind and tells the breeze when to swell and push my hair out of my face and out of my eyes. I should keep it back. Smoke dances and clouds when it’s needed and dissipates as new leaves grow and sip warm tea, honey coating my lips - the smooth and sticky touch that only attachments can bring. And I always end up reaching for the soap, long showers exfoliating and applying layers to protect from the elements, to keep my skin mine. It’s all while her precession tries to tell me, each day the clock reads the same time, printed stories tell me of my day prior, the deer holds its gaze behind the glass gate of the night. And I tell myself I can break the glass and sit in the dirt for a night and release possessions that were never meant to be kept