ys and the milk eyed mender
if only i could articulate in words what she can articulate with fingers, moving up and down itsy bitsy spider-like with metaphor i could only dream of touching. and as for all that talk about setting yourself on fire as a last effort statement, its a great excuse to end a life. because excuses dont always have to be words. i prefer body language. and i can say so much more with my eyes than my mouth will ever be worth. so i sometimes watch her eyes because i know her lips dont always say everything she means. hold back, but push in. and i laugh behind smoke and music and wine because inaction is always still an action, which is why i prefer not to inact. but the action of those fingers! ahh! let me only be her arms for a night so i can know what if feels to have that motion run through me! because i cant help this kind of fascination, childlike and infatuating as it is... that childlike voice. and it reminds me that i have so much life ahead of me to live as i choose, to be whoever i make myself. and that excites the shit out of me. the same way as either the green grassy hills or yellowed trees do. but even the rolling cliffs will make good company of my eyes, each sacred in their own way, like her. the one who inspires me to do amazing things in the same amazing way i find each movement of her sacred fingertips, each expressing more emotion than thoughts and more thoughts than these words could ever dream to touch.