When did I get so bad at expressing myself? How does it happen that a thing inside me gets so big it's hard to breathe around it, and I can't liquify it and pour it out to another? I thought I was the writing one.

I want to tell about how my heart lurches in wondrous surprise at odd hours, how a sight or a memory or a word can make a smile break out and split across my face, or make me flush and warm all over, or make me ravenously hungry. I want to tell about how tiny details make a big difference. I want to tell how urgently I ache, how achingly I long, how longingly I look and listen and feel, all extended from the inside out over the ether and electrons.

Which is all flowery language for the total absorption that's got me by the heart, mind and guts, clenching me, whimpering, in its mercilessly delightful clutches.

I'm breathless. 

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