My feelings on it are sticky, they linger as thick milky paste would, should it reconsider and refuse to attach to what brought it into existence in the first place, I gently sway until I am sure I hear a song, the lyrics are muddled by distance and time, as they slide down the chute that leads to how I nod, they are forced to wait for recognition, held up by an earlier flight, that still waits for its belongings to be claimed, some have been delayed until in comfort they are no longer dizzy, spinning on the shiny carousel that is always                   well manicured, in constant motion, it will never hide the reflection or ignore the outline of a worn face, travel occurs within and it always wears itself out, back and forth I help to make the connection, sometimes I want to blend my all, but only when I am completely smooth, the parts will have to lubricate themselves, should I touch, I would only settle that which spins around, the motion must be sustained, even if much is unable to hold on, my body is a misplaced bog of rhythm, all that does not depart, it cannot cling or reconsider, firmly pressed together its union is what I long to feel, stuck within a rambling                prose, waiting for a glimpse of the thickening distance and a punctuation of the attaching time.