helium filled balloon
there is goes
floating into unknown
mine but not really
who is it seeking ?
whose calling ?
Only the heart knows
I am flawed, fractured,scared and I know am living an impossible dream Love is a long haul and am ready to brave the tides and the whirlpools, storms and crushing waves. I call it impossible not because I fear of losing it but because you are afraid to push though your fears. Nothing kills love more brutally than our own incapability to hold it together.
we talk more say less
think more act less
hear more listen less
forget more remember less
empty more fill less
conceal more reveal less
take more give little
we leave a lot unsaid undone
we do everything wrong
just about everything
we turn love into a mental illness
and then we regret
we live a heartache
I wrote a letter to you last night. I wrote it on a white paper. With a pencil. I did not just write it to fill the nightmarish hours, or to make it seem as close to reality as possible, nor did I write it so I could trace my fingers over it and feel the throb of each word. I did not write it to bring it to my lips and kiss the way I would have loved to kiss you – gently or to inhale your imagined warmth from it.
I wrote it for a simple reason that I missed you in the most desperate human way. Raw naked want. Just that. Simple hunger. No , not the one that consumes the body and makes it burn over the cool white sheets. Not that. A want , a hunger of togetherness. Of being with each other.
It is something very private. Something that you may not even feel or may clothe it with your perfectly woven wordrobe so that it loses bits of its reality but I, I miss you more than you can imagine, more that I can believe and I was prepared to miss you a great deal you see. This missingness is a deluge.
How do you miss someone whom you haven’t met in flesh and blood?
Let us not debate that. This is not a courtroom. This is not a trial of love .
It just is . Period.
It is a wait.
A wait that maybe you may realize and accept that you too want me with the same intensity after all.
If not , maybe you will gather strength to say it otherwise, to put love to trial, to hold court, and the verdict will be given and love will lead us to our separate graves.
Have you walked through empty corridors? There is an intimacy there. Like love. It fills you. A fusion of light and dark. Shadow and light.
Sometimes I feel you brush past against me , a presence, just as you in my mind, in my heart, sending a tingling sensation down the nape of my neck all the way to the small of my back. It gets under my skin, circulates, and takes residence at various places I had forgotten they existed.
I wrote to you with a pencil .. why ? you will ask.
I never liked pens. I like the black on white. I like the fragility and fluidity of writing with a pencil. I like the way it softly moves, like foreplay. Pens are crude in my opinion. violent.
There is a movement in words written with pencil.. I watch them lazily curl up on your pillow or slide beneath your nightshirt clinging to your chest, I watch them nestle in your hair as my fingers would. I watch them trace patterns on your body like kisses. They are secrets, sensuous syllables cuddled under the supple folds of your skin. Taking your shape, spooning . Only words written with pencil can do this. This perfect merger of hard lead and soft smooth delicate paper. Only they come with so many more possibilities.
Only they can map the topography of your body without leaving a tell-tale sign, silently like a tendril wrapped around a stem. With thousand miles between us I let them make what we can not. Love
So I wrote a letter to you last night, like every night . I can not keep away from you.
Go buy a pencil. Run your fingers over its spine. Hold it gently. Let its soft tip move on a white paper. Let the heart do the rest.
I wrote to you a letter like I do each night and tied it to my heart .. there it goes .. it will find you … if you chose so.
Read all the YOU AND I posts here.