tongue secrets.

I keep wanting something. I know not what it is, or where it comes from. I know not of what it ate for breakfast on the 24th of April when she was late for first period in 1996. I still don't know what color it's hair is, or how her eyes reflect in a placid pond, pondering all of her recent thoughts. Thoughts archived in a resevoir deep beneath your consciousness. But would I like to know? Would I like to spoil a surprise so ancient and preserved? So sliced readily and dashed with salt.

I feel as if I'm waiting for a dream. Waiting to exhale Not a dream to come and take me away, but to enlighten me of otherwise invisible things. Secrets. Things only whispered into the ears of lovers. Secrets.