passions for the passionate, 1.

zinc
au revoir simone
micron pens
soup, stew
books

If my words could dance they would play on your tongue, slide around in the space at the middle of your back, the one that makes you shudder.
Never meant to lie flat on the page, but to be tasted touched tantalized teased.

Synesthetic people see emotions in numbers, colors in words. I would melt my words down to liquid in a kiln, rub them into your skin like oil.