Each word is a room, windowless. Robed in glass so light passes through it. Crystal, jellyfish, translucent skin that covers your blue veined hands: words are these things, a lens. Eyes mean one thing when I am looking at you and another for everyone else. The difference is, your eyes hurt me. The word eye is too shallow a descriptor to hold something so full of beauty as your pink tinged gaze. Even in this, pink brings to mind watered-down red, a dilution. When I say "pink tinged", I mean to conjure a vulnerable, snow-covered, bleeding color. There is nothing lesser than red or lesser than anything about you. There is only a visceral tingling of what we call pink. But these words are not cradles, they cannot hold you. The horizon line buckling beneath the sky is too round to be surmised by skyline. Likewise, fragments like fingertips coloured with orange peel, the fork of your two with teeth, the way you hum like you are holding a harmonica in your windbox do not mean nearly enough. Your inanities become oceans, these words a fleet of doomed lifeboats.