a benevolent disruption of logic
voicing her passions
as her nimble fingers manipulate,
no,
create,
projecting herself into this world
and into my arms.
I heard birds squawking;
She listened to their song.
I prove myself with reason;
She proves herself with colors.
But this is illogical,
and I’m all shades of grey.
So why do our hands keep finding each other?
And why are our kisses so welcoming?
She can only be herself,
but I can be anyone.