whisper me your longings of divided nations, and conquered grins. where the world stops for your eyes, and I am just as likely to still and bow down with the rest of them. because you are infinite, you are deviant, you are what it is like to breathe and stop breathing. you haunt with the imprints you leave on abandoned pages. but regardless of all those copies, you are the negative. the one by which all are calculated. and on those rainy days where we sit outside, under the overhang and watch. I can't help but think that you, you beautiful infinite thing, are like the smell of rain. fresh and nostalgic. sitting on the swing.
