The moon tickled me somehow.
Your white satin shoulder.
That childish feeling one gets when watching Baron Munchausen woo a bodiless giant lunar goddess or Gene Wilder's Wonka finally realizing that Charlie is a good boy.
A sparkly champagne nose tickle that might as well be fairy kisses.
Highway lampposts echo brighter yet softer.
The heat at my back is reminding me that you love me and want to ease my pain.
I remember I can do this.
I am she. Jessica. She-Jessicah.
I think less of I.
My heart and all its arteries are played like smoking violin strings until the contortion into reality stretches toward the vast pain of others.
Yet not hopelessly dismayed,
Rather intensely capable of making a difference.