The weft of your eyes

 The weft of your eyes; yes, no. In the hubbub, always. In the nothingness, sometimes. You-me. It's not everything but it completes, fills in the gaps of meaninglessness. Ad hoc. The marrow of our mind. Our meeting in music. In the language of music. In its shouting. Those knots of sea ropes on the tongue. A raw screaming. Again. the curve of the days. Without its doubts of the days. Its windows of beauty. Bubbles of shadows. Mirrors of shadows. Lips go. Towards love they go. 

Senso, then ex-isto as hypo/thesis.