A beautiful mind

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Words on silver strings that hang from cosmic lights, dipping low into oceanic bellies late at night. They are the type of words that breathe lightly upon the back of your neck, scrape gently against the small of your back. They are the type that causes your scalp to tickle and your calves to twitch, the sound of an echo deep within your clavicle that somehow reminds you exactly of home. It’s the type of word that causes you to sit quietly on summer fields covered in winter frost because you’re worried that if you move, winter will leave you. It is the kind that presses against the back of your eyelids when you’re gently waking and tempts you for one more moment, one more second – the brush of temptation against your neck that invites you to stay cocooned in warmth. The kind of word that I see when I turn and look at you. Ink hair pressed against your sloping forehead, doe eyes looking up at me. Centuries having eroded upon our shoulders and the word persisting onward. You inch closer and press fresh linen cheek to me so that I cannot grasp the word – I am a mute and words are meaningless drums that I have been beating for far too long. You are just a boy with peppermint lips, but you can rip apart my words with just a blink. You have a laugh that travels the radio waves and somehow eradicates the need for language. You are body language and my limbs are trembling; you are sign language and my eyes are closed. You press closer and kiss the sweep of my neck, whisper “I love you” and somehow, in the wake, leave silver words to dissolve on my tongue.

Words on silver strings that hang from cosmic lights, dipping low into oceanic bellies late at night. They are the type of words that breathe lightly upon the back of your neck, scrape gently against the small of your back. They are the type that causes your scalp to tickle and your calves to twitch, the sound of an echo deep within your clavicle that somehow reminds you exactly of home. It’s the type of word that causes you to sit quietly on summer fields covered in winter frost because you’re worried that if you move, winter will leave you. It is the kind that presses against the back of your eyelids when you’re gently waking and tempts you for one more moment, one more second – the brush of temptation against your neck that invites you to stay cocooned in warmth.

The kind of word that I see when I turn and look at you. Ink hair pressed against your sloping forehead, doe eyes looking up at me. Centuries having eroded upon our shoulders and the word persisting onward. You inch closer and press fresh linen cheek to me so that I cannot grasp the word – I am a mute and words are meaningless drums that I have been beating for far too long. You are just a boy with peppermint lips, but you can rip apart my words with just a blink. You have a laugh that travels the radio waves and somehow eradicates the need for language. You are body language and my limbs are trembling; you are sign language and my eyes are closed. You press closer and kiss the sweep of my neck, whisper “I love you” and somehow, in the wake, leave silver words to dissolve on my tongue.