Whirlwind of Kleenex

Words elude me!
They jump like little fleas from my skin
hurrying away– except that they are
desired, craved, wanted.
Fleas are not.
Words are, but they dissipate
on the wind of my brain and float
out of my ears, a
lovely perfume that I want on me.
Words make fine seagulls
cawing loudly, stridently, to me
and then flying way off together
at the first sign of storm.
When will the storm end?
It is unlikely sounding, but I want the
fleas, the pervasive scent, the gulls.
I want them but they don't seem to want me.