Words are some kind of door or rather handles too often used.The sternocleidomastoid, for example, every doctor knows it. Every human has it. Especially you. But not even yours is special.The rain and the pillow have felt it, the sea ​​and the wind, and I do not want to think about what and who else have or I might rip mine out. They saw so they know. It can no longer be mine

I'd become an explorer just to find a month on the sky of your skin. I'd call it Iona from love and let it float towards Cancer. The constellation, that is.

"you" is an oily knob.I'm afraid not to grab you incorrectly.I am afraid not to use it somehow wrongfully and you wouldn't answer when I call after you. like in tyoulip, for example.

I uselessly planted so many stems. They did nothing but grow beautifully but can't compare to you. They can't place me on my thoughts and won't ever say if they think of me. You meet at least one of the two conditions.

One day I will grow tall and leafy and then I shall write an alphabet of us and us only.