from somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

 nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

 the power of your intense fragility: whose texture 
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

 (i do not know what it is about you that closes
 and opens; only something in me understands
 the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
 nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

                                      - Cummings (of course)

all the time lately i keep thinking of this poem, and wonder if the people i talk to have a voice in 

their eyes, and i am beginning to believe that we all do, and i think mine is strong.

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