Was that not a round of applause?
my fingers are quills, tracing the nape of your neck; the arch of you back. this novel, my memoir, my poetry, this entry, flow and sprawl on your skin, staining your body like pages absorbing ink. i feel you chill and suddenly, i’m the blind reading your flesh’s sensitivity. the metaphors, living and breathing on your chest and in your hair and inside of you, even making kafka jealous. i can’t tell you how i feel any other way. the words are on you; in you. in translating my written thought and the language in my eyes, you will see an unspeakable, invisible metaphor with no metaphysical limit. transcendent to a reality beyond what is perceptible to the senses. this is my unconventional imagery to you.
