For Tongues and Fingers

I see no stress in stressing over things that ought not to be

I see no reason to love lovely things that do not involve me

It's not that I don't care, believe me! I have the will, it is something else that lacks in my blood. To walk away seems so cruel, and I am so starkly aware of this as I turn the page, your words like blurs of lines, forgotten and unnoticed. 

Even my own words mean nothing to me these days, I feel it there, just beneath my fingertips. Words. But, they are not forcing their way out through my flesh at present. No, they are more like the soft tingle of a numb limb. But soon I can tell, they will wake, and like daggers, and ants and soldiers in fields, they will come pouring out, crashing out, onto pages and into hearts.

Say it with me now:

I find no expressively expressive expressions upon your excellent face