The object that waits.

Shouldering. The mutual moment of supporting another with a balance of pressure. The impossible structure that has moved away from the scaffolding, the armature and the framework and assembled itself in the middle with balletic grace. This composite moment is magical, delicate, simple.

Last night I dreamt that you took me out to the middle of an endless, flat field and held me, enveloped me in your arms and your body, covering me in a woolen coat. The sky was dark and moody and I complained that we were in the open, that people could see us out here, but you kissed me and told me that the crowd couldn't see. They were moving the other direction.

It was true. When I looked their way, they were dissipating and I would soon be alone out here with you in a cold and vast flat tundra seated on the ground. I woke up. I couldn't tell if there was dread or complacency in my heart when I discovered that the one that was going hold me was also the one who could hurt me; that far from any enclosure there is a precarious feeling of freedom and fear.

We are here in the middle now. We've toed the marker and are waiting for the cue. But the cue never comes, and the action remains poised. You remain with your hand on my face - unclear whether you will slap or caress my cheek. The choreography goes unwitnessed without a dance, the stage directions are frozen and poise is intention. This assemblage of parts could spring to life or fall to pieces; spraying the air or the ground with its life. But there is none, just a taxidermied gesture that waits and balances, as the crowd backs away and the moment persists.
Peek over your shoulder: it is still there.