My palms itch with the desire to move, to manipulate, to create. What doesn't make sense is beautiful, awkward - intriguing.
Tell me stories about all the lies you constantly tell; expect me to believe every last syllable. (But then I suppose that my belief is the best part of the whole situation, due to the delightful irony that it's what I desperately want.)
More than anything, I miss being touched. (Mind out of gutter, now.) So much as the casual brush of fingertips when passing over a pencil or a cup of tea can be enough to reassure a person that one is liked. (No one wants to be in that lowest of low castes.) Will you remind me of everything that I know myself to be?
It's beautiful in its awkwardness, so I let my palms itch with desire and I observe. I can gather information until the outcome is obvious, and in the meantime, remind myself that if I believe your lies, my conclusions will be skewed. (Never mind what I want to be true.)
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