What words we shall say to invisible hearers would twine us together. Until then this frayed end, this optical nerve with no orb to connect to, screams “Wasted!” turns tail and hies back with vision unburdened.
I do not breathe air but sip streams of ink, contours of couches and, lightly, the arc of an eyelash. How substance could be at once empty and bursting, silence both leaden and vapor, I don’t know, but somehow, I think, it is thought that I have a fingerprint. It’s only a spiral to me.
Comes a day I will follow it, find the hand God made and touch the ones He meant. There will come a day of significance.
For now I can only map travels I haven’t yet made. If drawn well enough it may seem that I truly have been there.
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