Sometimes I look around at all the invariant variousness around me, the thoughtless or heartfelt bounds and guises lapping in at me, the countless quirks and billionfold trusses of emotion and thought. I consider this wandering contortionist of life, watch her strut about in a humble costume of monotony until she flexes her wild abandon out and flashes like little jeweled fishies struck by the darkness of the deep. I look into flush faces, boney or bouncing limbs bound in dripping lace and clutching velvet, cataracts of figurative motion whirling about, a fancy here, a respite there. I watch ducks cross ponds without intending to. I see tender love that's never spoken nor allowed to touch lips. I look into kindred eyes and wonder whether what is spoken and thought between them can even begin to uncover the beautiful, delicate maze intricated within that gaze. I wonder how to awaken to such thoughts. To me the simplicity of your fingers is contradicted by their touch.
To reprise:
The heart can become a trifling little quibble. In a sea of tempestuous heaves and climactic revivals, a heap of brine and salt-licked folly, the heart of all vessels may stand out, a testament to its own worth. My heart speaks volumes, it seems to me, and yet every time I bring it out I only feel the careful touches of tentative dew drops considering well-worn paths. A sharp gaze follows readily along its wake. All things being equal, I think, it should drop below the surface, count the small bubbles flying unequivocally toward the surface, and rise up to meet them. At least to say hello.
So, hello. It's nice to see the familiar world again. My eyes bloom with the lush surroundings and the uprising of tumultuous birds. The spring releases countless possibilities for me, which I like to chase around maniacally into the calm and quiescent hues of the evening. And after things calm down, I'll just stare up at that bizarre creature we call the sky and count all the clouds, stars, and meteorites the Milky Way has to offer, tip my eyebrows at them and fall away into sleep.
So, goodnight.
To reprise:
The heart can become a trifling little quibble. In a sea of tempestuous heaves and climactic revivals, a heap of brine and salt-licked folly, the heart of all vessels may stand out, a testament to its own worth. My heart speaks volumes, it seems to me, and yet every time I bring it out I only feel the careful touches of tentative dew drops considering well-worn paths. A sharp gaze follows readily along its wake. All things being equal, I think, it should drop below the surface, count the small bubbles flying unequivocally toward the surface, and rise up to meet them. At least to say hello.
So, hello. It's nice to see the familiar world again. My eyes bloom with the lush surroundings and the uprising of tumultuous birds. The spring releases countless possibilities for me, which I like to chase around maniacally into the calm and quiescent hues of the evening. And after things calm down, I'll just stare up at that bizarre creature we call the sky and count all the clouds, stars, and meteorites the Milky Way has to offer, tip my eyebrows at them and fall away into sleep.
So, goodnight.