Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience; your eyes have their silence: In your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which I cannot touch because they are too near.
Your slightest look easily will unclose me though I have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal me as spring opens touching skillfully, mysteriously her first rose, or if you wish be, to close me.
I and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow, carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the color 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.
By: E. E. Cummings
Have a great weekend! Please play Vampires, Dragon Wars, and Mafia Wars with me, see bulletin post.
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