My hands smell of flower, and I am flying on a whiff of it in the wind. The air stays still in this part of town, the dogs sleep in the middle of the road in the heat and the horizon on the east side is a sodium orange haze, the light of the city dissipates, stories pass through my head, all the words come and go in a cloud of incomprehension. I am sad, sad, sad, immeasurably sad. My limbs are heavy with sadness and refuse to move. I look at the stars and think of the expanding universe and the beginning of time and how inconsequential we are, you and I, and I have to tell myself that we are important, the human emotions and their subtleties are important, that we are in the here and now. My love, my hands smell of flower and I wish I could make you see what a miracle it is that we are alive, together at the same time.
My hands smell of flower and I trust the wind to take a whiff of it to you, and perhaps, perhaps, if the universe gives, bring back a snatch of a song in return.
