I talked shit to get into your body, but, in all
truth, I had only the desire to get inside
your brain. The grape water revelations, however, stole
such inclinations and wrapped me in pedestrian
sobbing. I long not for our union of flesh, but for
more exploration of your landscape of thought. My skin sullied and freckled
from casual enticements means not. But an evening with your neurobiology has
certainly daunted. And Schrödinger's cat still means nothing
without the desire to open the door. I get it, I do. Please, just don't think my hunger
for your mind was the same as simple foot prints, as I have no interest
to tread. You are. And you do that perfectly.
...even if all things become fodder. They were once the
empirical data from which the architecture of mind cannot contend.
It's only 3 years. Mother, I get it. Instincts and hormones. Yet,
your grace carries much.