I don’t understand my feelings for you. But then why would I want to cut into them with understanding? They are living, breathing feelings, and you only perform autopsies on dead things. My feelings for you soar – why are you insisting I scoop them from the air, strap them down onto the mortuary slab and open them up, live and struggling, to see what’s inside? Will you be happy only when they’ve taken to the skies again, studied and stitched, bearing the scars of this urge to know? Being feelings for you, they will fly again after the ordeal; being feelings for you, they will heal, but maybe I will not.
Besides, all their secrets are in the way they fly, they way they alternately swoop and settle. Nothing will yield to the scalpel: use the binoculars.
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