**** and fire. The smells of food and drink: desire. Small handprints on the rocky womb mark where we began to want — to think — before we left our ignorant stone tombs, tossing rocks behind us, where thoughts arose. Memories awoke to chide us. Confide in me: who was the third, the thornless rose, you held between your teeth? Don’t try to hide from me. There are some things the blind can see, and I have known them all — and told them all. Flowers grows where tears flow like a stream, and soon, if you don’t speak, these vines will fall across your eyes. I recall a stolen kiss: tasting the words before you could confess.