I cannot tell you how much.
It’s not the car.
Those lovely earrings.
Even the hand blender.
It’s that skin I wear.
Tear-drop soft. Goosebumpy.
(Mostly around you.)
Yet the pachyderm
Sticks, stones, and all that jazz.
It’s not for the science of the volcanoes.
Or the beauty of the seething, molten magma.
Both hurt, in inexplicable ways.
That tough hide helps.
As it filters, absorbs.
So that, even in your absence,
In finite and in definitive terms
I still own you.
Because I wear you.
18 January, 2015.
Don’t mind me. I just finished reading “The Fault in our Stars” by John Greene; so. This mushy gooey stuff would not let me be 😀 Most especially this line:
My thoughts are stars I can’t fathom into constellations.