Things are always spilling over, meaning bleeding like feelings from the flesh. We scuff and scrape and smudge everything we touch, cryptic sworls the signatures of our busy fingers. Boundaries broken, borders crossed, everything seemingly immune to our habits of specificity, save the ideas we cling to with all the mad fervor of our faiths. All these fears and wishes paint our every brush. There is always more within us than we can contain. We are poor vessels that set forth leaking all about the world, then declare how much of the world is wet.
The feelings will not abate. We are this weave of stone and dream, the resonance of the instrument, the page when graced with ink. We write that it is written, never even slowing for the joke. This world always seething with our senses, the song so familiar because it must be recognized to be sung. The knots in our logic, the loopholes where we bind the spell, these limits we can never see. So close the reasons cling, enfolding what I may know, yet still so sure of my love. You are where all I want and the world intersect.
This is the measure of the magic, the slight shift of tense, the way my breath glistens against your skin. The sudden spill of probability, the ubiquitous aligning of the cosmic such and such. The casual spell of being just in time gathering at every sense. Love so fast and certain it seems sure to be a trick. A sign of the times or a fire in the mind. It is distant until it is upon you, and then it wears you as its skin. This chill calling gooseflesh so swift upon you, it feels as if touched by a ghost you always knew was there. These lips folding words, these fingers holding tight.
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