Cool breezes make me romantic. They curl around my arms like ribbons. They make me sleepy. They make me still. Passing from all parts, the wind that touched my thighs might have touched the hands of a boy in Oceania, and I can feel his wandering fingers. Sighing into the wind, it sighs back at me.
Lightly it tugs strands of my hair up and away from my face. How it plays around my face! And is the wind alone? Or are winds many? And do they stay connected by a common string, and is it strong when they flail about, furrowing and twisting in millions of different directions? And this soft breeze now... is its tail pulled by a tornado?
Soft, cool breeze. How you rush and flutter in rivets, in torrents, in storms. You are but a push of air in empty pockets of weather. But you enter in through my open window - and I opened it for you, welcoming, as I pulled back the shade - carrying with you the touch of hundreds of hands. You brush against my nose, my knees, my wrists, and I let you.
I let you in. You make me feel.
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