There is a sense of recognition from feeling another person’s heartbeat. What there is to be recognised cannot be given a name, an all-encompassing feeling that you’re about to go somewhere you’ve been before; and if it weren’t for the skin that shows where the self ends, the ribs would be locked together, no other, no I, no you. Macabre maybe, but the mind is greedy and close is not close enough oftentimes. Perhaps it’s the hunger to learn, to be set on a voyage of discovery which can’t be placed on paper. I know you like your tea with two sugars and a small splash of milk; that you get cold easily and your favourite colour is blue. These things can be verbalised, to basic points of who you are. But the quiet unnamed thing, only skin deep yet evasive, is what is familiar and faraway. The anatomy of knowledge is what lies outside, the facts not springing easily from locked lips. Give me a library, route planned out like a motorway, pages and pages bottled up sentences, flattened versions of the world to leaf through.
But I know I like the peaceful places, and will stop there to read; to picture your face. Who has to say A directs B when the syllables in your name don’t run in a certain order.