There, from your scrawny little self fly your conflicts, controlling the desire of ever being understood. If ever word was enough for empathy, we would never need to kiss hands or look into eyes. If belief was enough for security, never would we need to ask and declare our love. There is your body, bottling up your sensation of space and your running away from time making your fingers thunder and words fumble. The fluid blueness of your soul escaping this chalky body that has become little from trembling like a leaf. All the time. If you ever were to be understood. How would it be. How would it be to know that you feel with a stranger. When would you be certain of knowledge of knowledge, ad infinitum.
Mostly I brush life off my shoulder when it falls gently from a tree, or when it grows from my shirt like lint. Mostly i sigh it away like a laugh from an unfounded joke or a waft of extra air in speech. Except sometimes.