Particles excite in the atoms of my fingertips,
tiny whirling dervishes longing to dance at the altar of your skin.
Instead they tap the tiny keys,
willing the energy to inhabit words.
What good are words?
Cramped and awkward,
a meager shadow of the lavish exultation they hope to capture.
I am left with crumbs
when all I wanted
is a feast.
Of Words and Whimsy 