Dear you,

Do you suppose an opera glove has any use to a woman that sleeps in the grass and howls at her reflection in the sky? There’s a lightness to the banality of one’s mercurial need, predictable like free flowing water and invisible not because it lacks attractiveness but because it’s preoccupied with life.

Sometimes getting caught within the flow and feeling bound in a helpless sort of wakefulness positions my lips to yours through impulse alone, a talent of consciousness delivered by nature’s bare hands.

Love,
Me