i just like writing. i like it. i write and it comes flooding. it blows exploding breaths from my tips. my tips of fingers. it flies across them enormous and tiny cylinders. it comes out them and it gets stuck in my brows. tangled they spark ardently and they crowd heaven. they construct and they crowd it. and did you notice how i touch each one ably. i deftly kiss each letter and they flutter whole seas of wings. i don't know why
i should be in them. i'd not thought them pretty till i were already so loving their shapes and forms i'd not raise from sleeping if i couldn't feel them. but now i do. and they are never from me. they are always hot
and squirming in me. but i can't like what i make. it would unmake it. unmake their pretty and their deep.