Our hands criss-cross as our minds do:
Bind the force between us, as the square distance is inversely proportional.
Silence proves only the tumult of a pair of thoughts
behind dilated, evaluating eyes -
speech being the bane of the expression and of literacy.
A functional tongue is free, a gift, to those without words...
but we check the teeth, and
We have words.
Distance is the journey to closeness; hands touch;
eyes meet, eyes search;
thoughts are, thoughts mean;
life was, life is;
change
which
is gradual or
change which hastens; is
just Change.
An anomaly in the gradient of our line,
to which sweetness clings is
so striking that it renders all bitterness temporary
but lights the candle that flickers in the
Periphery.
A[berr<dor]ation
