Words...
weapons. Or flowers, gifted. The most amazing thing of letters is the order of them, the collective. The formation of them that fall into your eyes, perhaps a murmur on the lips of certain words aloud:
-Love
-Love
-Love
followed by the brain accepting them and allowing them to infer, impact...land. The circuitous loop that words take is enlightening as I see the you and I attempt to define, refine. I catch glimpses and stares, side-looks and imaginings. I see the person, I see the shape...and then I try to describe. I try to define. Yet it is my interpretations...what you read is what I capture...my mind the camera, you the model. I am not a mirror...no far from it. Instead I absorb and try woefully so to conjure up pretty words...
-pretty
-pretty
-pretty
Like a sprinkle of dew on a Spring grass, except for the part that the only thing close to that analogy is that you are fresh to me, to my eyes, my aperture...you exist and you belong and then I appear and now there is something so much more. And I attempt to describe it, maybe as I said define it...and whether you believe it or not is not my goal...I want it to be my imprinted clay, that you form on me.
I think that many passersby see you...but not in the way I do. Unfocused. Withdrawn are they to not see what I see. Perhaps they haven't enjoyed the studies...the long studies of you. The long looks and the quiet observations. They will never bring their eyes up and analyze...
-recognize
-recognize
-recognize
The rarity of you...the unknowns of you that layer in tombs and catacombs and unexplored portions...the mysteries and the riddles.
Like how you leave chalk dust upon me after writing my name on some place and then erasing it. You try me on, you try me out...
You write graffiti on my heart and you use enough spray paint to finish...written on some place that maybe no one else will see. And I can live with that image.
