The host of the verse.

I am nude before feminine.

I am a difference between a woman and an ideology.

I am an explored space before a poet.

I am a thousand times Berlin’s chaos before the evening closes to nothing but disappearing cars and pretentious politics at work.

I am subject and noun, possibly likeable in any language yet not describable in every language.

I am often the poet’s evening, briefly scratching that rewarding moment of temporary recognition.

I am silence when I’m quiet; I am their mind when I’m loud.

I am a weird subjunctive, because possibility keeps me away from ‘not at all’.

I am that force that cannot be denied, or a particle of my own science that I keep in femininity’s hands.

I am a body with room for synonyms, depending on who is noticing.

I am the weight of a waiting room for waiting and waiting.

I am the dance before the poet snaps their fingers and the music stops.

The same dance itches their fingers when they cannot choose which hand to hold the pencil.

They have imagined me with all their closed-eyed skills and slow commitment.

I have imagined them until I relapse into what I am.

The verse's host.