There is a finely honed precision with which your obsequious indecision has rendered me more than curious, less than concerned, the sort of hostile takeover tactics that you favor, do no damage but it’s the fervor that your intellectual ardor adores that seems to envelope the very marrow of me. Conscientiously you fumble/stutter/move faster along the surface till your efforts find purchase and then you’re not just diving in but drowning surrounded by all my observations with random ramifications, nothing ventured, nothing gained but sometimes I think the type of currency you tendered surprised you, a tender sort of resignation that there’s nothing to be helped from this most inelegant of tactile abrasions, everything shared only begetting more of the same, it’s a stream-of-consciousness courtship, candy-apple red revelations in cerebral lockboxes, you think you’re looking for a key when the door’s already been opened but you can’t resist prying trying to test the resistance of my mettle, the best of your intentions against my carefully orchestrated nocturnal defenses and yet somehow it manages to fit, the stealth that you employ to sneak in under my sensory awareness is nothing short of strategic, misdirection gone the way of all things superfluous, the only thing left to us is everything to discover, and all the time that comes in the only sort of measurements that we recognize, wanted minutes, not wasted hours.

06/18/2008

Author's Note: "One which must be lifted a precise amount, neither too little nor too much to allow movement of a bolt."

Posted on 06/23/2008
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