it burns, my love. it is cold and fiery and as it goes down my throat -- but i am rambling i see i cannot stop when it is you on my mind, you twisting and alive, like a serpent, like a scar that, to run the ball of my thumb over, brings back all kinds of memories. once i was alone and i had purpose which fit neatly in numbered boxes and now...that purpose is eaten up effortlessly by your glance and dribbled outside the lines -- we live outside the lines now and even if you are far away and i cannot hear you sigh softly as you dream...well. i have a good imagination and it burns and burns within me.