Just.

There's nothing that makes less sense. Weather written in perfect grammar, with adjectives describing details with precice precision, sealed with no blemishes. Nothing could make less sense. How do you suppose I might understand, with a hand covering your mouth, rabens shading your eyes, your legs crossed, staring ahead. The impossibility is impossible, everything is paradoxal, and you sit there, unaware, calm, collected and alone.

Time floats around you, like a hot air balloon dwindling in the breeze, so much hot air and energy enfusing to power it, yet it just floats effortlessly. Taking all for granted, a great trait of yours, but you don't even know. It's ridiculous, because it's not. I try to understand, but I'm not sure if there is anything to understand.

So why do I write? Why do I think? Why do I type? Why do I sing? Why do I wait?

Confusion has always been complacent in my life, but never so overwhelming. It pours over the edges with subtlety, so subtle that it's evidently obvious, just like overfilled chocolate licks, waiting to be licked. But for some reason, I can't taste an creamy chocolate on my tongue, or endulge in sugary goodness. Help me understand.

Insomnia, but I'm fine. A plane trip ought to do, but how would I know. Relax. I breathe and melt, my hands twitching to the clicks of my trecherous mind. I think, tensely. I hope, tenderly. I find a path, of soil and crunchy grey leaves, the tips of short strands of grass tangled in my toes, and the white clouds so bright my eyes hurt. I can't walk, or run, or move, until you link my arm and we skip.

We are lame, but not lame enough it seems. There is nothing perfect about anything, but at the same time there is. No heart is being crumpled or torn or shredded or crushed beneath reckless feet, because your heart is playing hide and seek with itself, while mine dances to the sound of my song, with no chorus, and no direction, just the same three simple verses about a bird and a dog and a boy.

But, It's confused, like me. The final verse, it is never complete, and my heart, pauses awkwardly and cringes, embarassed. And then she cries, just like me, crying in embarassment, and crying more in further embarassment. It's too far away from the end, and too close to a misleading path. So it cries until it is dry and baren, and I hold her between my thumbs an hum the final bars, quietly.