not even the rain has such small hands

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.

e.e. cummings

somehow e.e.'s poems had alway made me feel terribly melancholic because I always felt longing and envy... wanting to feel like whatever it was that he was feeling while he was writing. It was always so simple, just like I always though things should be, at least for me. today I read this again, as many times in my life; except I wasn't sad or nostalgic. I didn't feel like the girl at the bus stop, left all alone, while everyone else had left to some sort of party I was unaware of, or simply just didn't want to participate in it because it was just such a hassle. Today it felt like I was on the bus, sitting comfortably, enjoying things just as they are for me. Simple.

I don't know why, I guess I've just been having a lot of sex, the good kind, the kind that makes you smile during dull and humdrum business meetings, the kind that makes you forget that soon I have to file my tax returns, or the kind that has everyone at work telling you how good you look, when in fact I probably look as the same old, same old, 38 year old, wrinkled, cellulite-riddden gal I've always been. Except, it's all so simple today.

http://sundeepdougal.tripod.com/eec.html