Reticent. Pushed up against a stone cold wall. Your palm tracing windtrails across my hair and you whisper little words. Words that I already know. It's as if the globe's falling in a huge arc and we're falling into it, breakneck speed and whirling feet, we go straight into the centre of it all, your eyes on mine, and our fingertips crushed together. Point of contact.
And there are trusty sidekicks stalking backyards and graves - toilet trained, dizzy made, help upright by one thought. A search for that something MORE. And I see you walk away from it. Knowing it full in the face, I see you running away from ideals and traces of color that shade collective, trusting, incompetent minds.
And I'm somewhere at the pinnacle. Slights and rage, trysts and haze, your resounding chuckle saved away. It's as if I don't know what I'm doing but how could I not? You're telling me. Again. Repeatedly. Like slippery pearls on the floor that run away from you. I could be wrong except that I'm not. But suddenly you tip and I fall at once, compliant.