Dearest time traveller,
I think you are just trying your best to romanticise what is and what barely is along with us to feel more human and less selfish, the bees and moths and all of what is waltzing in the same harmony or creating its own is too busy creating and keeping life on this life to bother with the matter of existence, I think. Just like you and me when touching, we are too busy creating poems, getting a grip on the details being born within the details and trying to keep all of what is around us every time we gasp and pant and kiss and decide to tell an iloveyou.
The vanilla tea I made doesn’t like being sneaked into my throat, perhaps I should feed it to my eyeballs, or thighs? Perhaps it’s a better home for it there. Hey, do you think birds would rather hop on our eyelashes, ribs, laughters and toes instead of trees? Is it odd that I feel like that they hop and live on trees and places that aren’t our bodies because we chose that? What if birds are beings some magician made while exhaling kisses to his loved one living in a cloud that promised to not to fade? What if the first bird was the magician himself? I think the first bird might be the magician himself, and the second bird was something the first just cried after discovering that clouds never, ever stay.