Mostly dancing is all about the timing : like stumbling over in midwhisper, or bumping heads. The most beautiful human dance is getting up after falling down.
Should the mind be organized into neat yellow folders, labelled with black magic markers that dispel heady scents which, while strongly familiar, make you remember weakly.
Do you, like me, dive and dissolve into water as gracefully as ink, spreading like the thin ballet spider you know you are, afraid to look into mirrors and be blinded by something special?
…the sole traveling companion being dropped into coffeecups, stimulant galore. Your eyes being mints that taste so much like Love. Still wrapped in candy foil, stored in pockets, taken one by one. When you move you move me, don’t you know it. When you cry my eyes sting. And like the connections you don’t believe in, or are wary of, I sit in empty stairwells and draw them up carefully with rhymes and puns — one question, one statement :
are hearts siamese twins? our hearts, siamese twins.
Can you imagine it’s just another atlas, just another globe, just a map. Just a compass needle forever flirting with polarity. Can you imagine. Whole civilizations have been borne and have died and still your love that tastes like mint remain…a crudely folded paper with directions by a handwriting you can’t read. But does it matter?
And wrapped in cloaks of dark night, there are lamp posts along the way, and from where I stand lost, why do I know all roads lead to you.
Can you imagine.
