by Dimitra Ioannou
They break up, they intersect, faint, asymmetrical, grey, along my entire arm. They don’t stand out. They trace steps, my steps at the same place; between the remote geography and the dusty eucalyptus trees, between the thick traffic and the denser silence, between two hours and two hours. On my palm, they trace the skin lines.
I couldn’t imagine another design on me. Neither a map, nor an imprint, more of a rough sketch; between the sudden mist and the radial roads, between the lit-up playing fields. I feel them at each piercing, though they are not complete but much smaller; between the sharp frequency and the extended sunlight, between two barks.
While they continue, they smudge me.
If you exclude this line, this line and that line, no other veins stick out. Sometimes I would like them to be embroidered, embroidered densely with no anaesthetic, with some threads hanging out; just like one of the excesses of idleness.
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Translation into english edited by Chrissa Babouris
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