I can only break down thoughts bound as 'uncharted territory'.  They're frail between my fingers. They're gullible; much like my opinions and like them, they require constant tending, caressing, bending and even fending off the nightmares with out the night.

But with out the night, I am speechless. My lips betray my heart with its secretes and signs the reign over to my mind. And still my mind struggles with indecision, vexed over the right punctuation and where it was that it thought to put them.  It's much like the blind led by a wire coiled around its waist, while the ears had been sharpened to the sound of whiplash.

Perhaps I have grown too used to the whip and my fingers accustomed to the rein, mastering the art of drawing lines on my back with words you might not be ready to read. I am an artist in my own way even though my work has never been displayed infront of admiring eyes, even though curious fingers have never glided their senses over my canvas of dried paint and marble. So all i can plead from you, darling, is to forgive my enigma and with it the years of experiences it took to construct it.