I was made to love, and I don't know if I was made to love you but I probably could.  Do our palms complement each other, creases matching vertical lines matching rounded fingertips?  Harmony, who knows?  Chemistry, I suppose.  Reverberating between these four walls, up all night, pacing the staircase in my subconscious summer home until I hear back from you.  It's silly, really.  Don't hang me up just to let me air dry, I get so tired of wasted time.  So when my glass is empty instead of a wasted trip to the kitchen, I'll climb into a boat made for two floating on whatever ocean you're trying to sail.  I just like feeling this way and it's not often I can't quite explain what I'm feeling with words, but.