I had never noticed the colour of your eyes.
I found this amusing, watching your nose crinkle in a spontaneous
combustion of genius, of joy, of light, of wanting or giving or
very hot coffee.
Have we been too nearsighted to find our own hands?
I could confuse mine with yours, get lost in hunting down the dragons
in the valleys of our palms.
Is this all we have been searching for?
Is it really that simple?
Always, as if time existed; even then, we can choose what to believe.
I wouldn’t trade a breath for more words.
I wouldn’t put on my boots if I didn’t plan to get them dirty.
This article appears in May 2012.
