Your hands cold as they find my neck.

Take my eyes, please. They're not doing me any good. They read things they shouldn't. They see things that never happened. They blur my, already compromised, vision with lachrymation. They say to people what I had no intention of saying.

You can take my tongue too. Sometimes it flails in an attempt to articulate the things that didn't even make sense in my head. And other times, when it needs to speak up, it remains hunkered behind my lateral incisors. The poor thing must have been installed backwards.

Hands, also. They reach for things that are no longer there, people that aren't available to hold and objects that remain unattainable. In a noble effort to take over for my malfunctioning tongue, they over-emphisize with exuberant hand gestures the words I'm not saying. They always reach for the things out of reach.

My brain is useless, as well. It thinks and it worries then it thinks then it worries some more. It battles with my heart over the most mundane of issues. It has an insecurity complex. It makes up scenarios, things that will never happen. My head ends up a great ball of tangled yarn, necklaces, capillaries and USB cords. You're in there somewhere. I know it.

Take my heart too. When it has something to say, it mumbles and stutters. When it argues with my brain it gets all in a twist. My heart thinks it can dance. Clearing a dancefloor in my chest cavity to express it's inspiration in a series of jumps, changement de pied and heartfelt jazz hands. My heart can't do sudoku, it can't tell you what 3 x 5 is, but it can sing. Oh can it sing.

Hell, take all of me. Just take me and put me somewhere I can't get in the way. Beside a decrorative vase or something. I won't move, I swear. I'll just watch and nod and look gentle. I don't need conscious thought, or decision-making skills. I can hold your coat for you while you put your shoes on. I think my fingernails will keep growing - a nano-metre a second.

Forgive me if I seem vacant, loveless or jaded. It might just be that my ass is numb from your armoiur.

Old smiles die hard.