these eyes of mine only tell me things I don't need to know: the color of your hair the shape of your eyes the form of you. none of it useful in navigating the straits of your heart. I learn you instead by braille: my heart's fingers moving along your lines to tell me the story of you.
10/10/2005
This reminded me of something I just read in "The Bitter Oleander" entitled "The Blind Fisherman" by Ines Pujos...I think you would like it, as I did this romantic piece. ~JPP