i keep asking myself if you know how tangled i am in your words. 

it is a much more subtle way to grab my mind. 

you could just stand still, and the aura that embraces your skin would trace my eye to your hands.
i imagine what would that look like on paper, so i could reread it as many times as i wish to be dwelled into. 

i keep asking myself if you know such cheap super magical power you possess inside your simple finger tips. 

a constant seed, which i rather leave unattended, for the sake of its roots grow in silent, on their own, undercover of some third party support some may think it needs. 

i keep asking myself, i keep asking if your eyes some day will bleed on the amount of information they hold right on their surface. 

i am tangled, i am tangled in your words.
on the things you don't say to me.
i am tangled like two distant knots forever driven to solve each other, knowing, from the beginning, they will never do. 

i keep asking myself,

are you tangled,

in my mind,

and do your eyes remain still,

for my words,

as i keep asking myself

of you?