Butterfingers, loose tongues, and absolute cluelessness.

Awkward. Basically awkward.

Awkward in the way I express interest.

How shall proceed? I seem to exist simply as a speck of sand in the vast ocean. How shall I stand out, when what I seek is akin to the pearl on the beach?

Alas, words stumble across my lips, causing a cacophony of sorts as I trip over each syllable unto the abyss of dialogue death.

Would that I could, I'd like more time, more opportunities, more natural occurrences... Just less a sense of needing to induce a happening.

Ah well, one can dream for now, one can hope. 

It's all vapour

Transient, temporal, momentary.
Words to capture that which cannot be captured.
Boundless wind, fleeting time;
Or vapour, as one sage of old inclined.

Such are the mysteries of this life,
that which we all are appointed to live;
Mine end seems far from now?
Nay, such notion is only for the proud.

I know of this one bird,
this dreadful sparrow once lovely.
Her ways upon the wind mystify me,
wings that took her far and long.

Yet now her time has quicken,
days darken, hearts frightened.
She speaks naught, only listens,
Eyes white with tears glistened.

And what wind carries her now?
But the wind of a macabre air.
Or perhaps it's simply vapour,
barely perceptible, yet all agree it's there.

So this is the enigma,
what gain to live as such?
To be at death's door and have all,
only for a moment more.

Such is life under the sun.