El hielo es fragil - Twenty-three seconds

Because, first, I want to share a connotation this makes me think of, for some reason: a scene in 'On the Road', Sal Paradise walks up to a pretty woman on an otherwise empty bus and says 'Excuse me miss... I seem to be having trouble finding an empty seat. May I?" *indicating next to her* ~She was a migrant worker and they both spoke Spanish, and thus the Spanish version of your poem brought out that thought. I also notice, though, that there seems to be a small difference in the Spanish version and English version... the second part of the Spanish version ends differently. It's strange because, even as I don't have sense of more than a very small portion of the language, I get a sense of the shape of what's said, and the differences, paired with a translation. My work at reading anime subtitles has probably helped me develop that- words and what they are translated into don't always add up the same. I'm still impressed at your linguistics, Bundle. Do you speak any other languages, too?

And now... ...My favorite color is blue within blue- that type of blue that almost glows with color. I- want to think that a part of the poem speaks to me. Or speaks -of- me. There's nothing to really indicate it directly, but I want to know that if at all it is, you've shown someone at long last the realm of pure inner personal Bundle and had it accepted. Fear not, your words are beautiful even if they are stuck to unheard places. If you would like a little conversation every day, I would write that often. I also feel that it goes beyond me. And that my looking on it just as such would be wrong- your friends, and, those whom may be loved, all feel distant. I understand, I know it so well. It can seem, sometimes, like putting my life, who I am, into written words... even for close friends, two-dimensionalizes me. Takes a photo of a movie. A movie from a lifetime. A page from a book. It does, but one page from the right book can still be infinitely more intriguing than the entirety of the wrong book. You sit, you wonder, you are- alone? Or, how many know beyond the borders of the Bundle? From whichever side they come from? And further, your work, your life, blends into this and makes the poem true for everyone you meet. It makes me almost think you must be a nurse or airline stewardess, the way you talk sometimes. Perhaps I am as curious about your favorite color, still. Shall you tell me such things? Or are those answers only the type you can speak?

Your poems, Bundle, are always able to be interpretted in so many ways, because of the way you phrase them. That has always been a part of the charm in why I enjoy them so much- any way I could pick out for what a section says would actually be only a part of what you mean it to say. You achieve magic, speaking so many voices while speaking none.