I’m doing it again. I’m getting mawkish, from loving something without knowing why, loving something so mammoth, loving it so grandly, that I don't even know where to put my heart down. Ah, there it is. You’re getting so much closer to what your eyes remind me of. That indefinite cavity, that sweeping emotion of your piano teeth, that bewitching graze of your pomegranate hands. I almost can't bear to look at you. The world is humming around your existence. Shivering, trembling, earthshaker, sunbringer. You are frighteningly alive. Nothing is the truth until you get your hands on it. There is a careful and loving precision to the way I glimpse at you. Darling, we’ve developed this habit of closing wounds but never cleaning them.
I don't recommend trying to make sense of this. I couldn't even do that myself.