light catching on ledges before it settles
stone holds it then lets it go
glass refuses the gesture, keeps everything moving
a figure caught in the wall, holding what arrives unchanged
below, the street moves through it slowly
as if nothing here is meant to stay— and still something does
a worker stepped outside and the building gave him up for the length of a cigarette.
smoke lifted, thin enough to pass inspection.
i sat across the way, waiting, where nothing was required of me.
the door closed and kept its number.
someone walked through the place the smoke marked.
the street resumed without remembering us.
i moved how the land moved low light over burnt slopes a single trunk split open but still standing
the ocean didn’t ask for me but it didn’t leave the train curved and my breath caught up
my chest found space the seat held my weight the hum matched the rhythm i didn’t know i was waiting for
i followed what stayed what didn’t flinch what made room without asking me to fold
ease came in through the ribs like memory like a name i used to know
not escape not softness just the truth of a body finally unbraced
i met myself in the quiet before the next turn
you pulled me back in before i’d even stood all the way up hand in my hair mouth still wet your breath catching like you were trying to apologize with your hips
i didn’t say a word just slid down again let my knees hit the floor didn’t care if it hurt— not when your thighs were already shaking
you tasted like skin and sweat like the first tear into a mango’s flesh juice running before i could swallow and when you moaned— low, throat-closed, helpless— i knew you’d let me ruin you again
after we stayed still your breath warm against my cheek hands heavy on my shoulders before you kissed my fingers one by one like they were the ones that had started it
held not as artefact but as muscle memory. a grip woven not to preserve— to insist.
this is not a still life. it is breath, folded. it is the echo of a sip carried across generations like a promise not yet emptied.
not display, but devotion. not history, but heat.
found on a walking sign, half peeled, half legible. housing crisis? deport muslims. unclear if it’s fascism or mockery. as if that distinction ever mattered. the horror isn’t the message — it’s that it blends in. nothing shocks. just one more trace in a city that trades blame for shelter, displacement for safety, violence for policy.
rigs still hanging. the crowd’s gone. just light, angles, and someone wrapping cables in the distance. no urgency. just the slow undoing of what passed through.
#tiohtiàke #drift #traces #surfaces #fragments #blackness #refusals
steel and glass above me.
heat on the thighs.
watermelon trunks,
black towers,
a view that costs too much.
but i’m here anyway.
resting in the contradiction.
#tiohtiàke #drift #surfaces #blackness #fragments #holdings #refusals
l’art existe. tucked between brutalist lines and fluorescent shadows. not a declaration— a reminder. of what survives the structure. of what glows anyway. even in institutions. especially in ruins.
#tiohtiàke #drift #traces #surfaces #refusals #fragments #holdings
i didn’t walk. i sat in the first row, just close enough to feel the beat in my chest. the floor glowed — not metaphorically, but actually. light from above, sharp and circular, caught on the sweat of someone’s shoulder mid-dip. it stayed there longer than expected.
people were yelling. not words, just recognition. you know the sound. when a move is too precise, too smooth, too honest to be ignored. someone hit the floor and bounced back like they never touched it. a house name echoed. as legend. as fact. as affirmation.
i watched. not from a distance, but from a place that knew how close it all is to disappearing. how fast the lights go down. how quickly the archive forgets us.
a phone beside me was shaking: someone filming, their hands unable to stay still. the dj looped a beat that rose from under the floor, not over it. and in that moment, nothing was held back.
i wasn’t walking. but i was inside it. inside the noise, the heat, the charge. inside the circle of people screaming each other into aliveness.
and that’s the thing. this isn’t spectacle. it’s communion. it’s how we stay legible to each other.
in the light of our own making. again. in the light of our own making. again. until the lights cut, until the floor clears, until the next time.