in a quest for subtlety.
which i've never been good at anyhow.

i've just never seen the point of it, even the walls have ears (or was it eyes?)
just to say you probably shouldn't be here much longer, its a waste of your time. don't expect anything in a while, because the brown of this page infuriates me.

until next time.

There is much in your absence, in the lack of your smell and the softness in between your fingers. There is much in the absence of the familiar feel of your neck, and my powdery crumbly cheek against it. Moonlight and Magnolias, Starlight in your hair- all the world's a dream come true. There is much in the absence of the rise and fall of your back, and feeling it through my hands. Its in the way you keep me hanging on a thread; you mock me as I watch, and even when I don't.

Its in the way you pronounce your words, and the way you end your sentences; in the way you walk and talk and laugh. There is infinite beauty in your sigh, and it reverberates for a lot longer than you intend it to, have you noticed?

Its more than prose, or poetry, or songs. Its a cosmic dance, and we're both leaders and followers. We're both only learning the steps, but you know what? Our strut is too confident to allow us to trip anyhow. Its in the stars, and in the starlight. Someday I'd like to sit and watch the stars with you, because there could be nothing more perfect than watching ourselves reflected across the night sky. More perfect. Its one of those concepts nobody can really grasp, but everyone pretends to. But we're more than a concept- I don't know what we are, but we're more than that. We're dancers, and in our swirls and twirls we lose the others and the things that don't matter. The concept is the seed- that falls off after we've been germinated, and we have.

I want to never be able to forget the smell of your hair, and the way it feels when I run my fingers through it. I want to remember the feel of your arm wrapped round my shoulder, and I want you to remember the same. I want to feel rain on my skin and yours, through many more bouts of sickness, and health. There are a lot of things I wish for- my blood won't let me stop. Perhaps its what I've been fed. More likely though, its what you taught me. In ways you could never imagine.

This is plebeian, just like love.
But then so are we, and that's why I want to dance with nobody else, because you taught me that.

Had we but world enough, and time
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.

we're blessed with each other, and rainy afternoons.
let the world unravel
around us- too soon, too soon.

too soon to pray, and too soon to keep
our hands in our pockets;
too soon to weep.

there is the necessary, and then there is more,
your foot on the dividing line,
and I crash upon your ankle shore.

Kings among Runaways

We're both sitting down in our secret hideaway, and being trapped in this bubble means more to me than anything. Because in this bubble, the trees are green and the buildings don't have cracks in them. There is enough air for the both of us, we don't have to share. There is music, and it's playing in your ear and in mine. In our bubble there's something in your face and in your absence of words that makes my heart sink and my head float.

It isn't about what's wrong and what's right anymore. You and I both know that words like wrong and right are nothing more than opinion, collective or otherwise. None of this is more than an opinion- and opinions are of little consequence to me these days. Because I know it is something more than that, that I'd so much rather cling on to, something steader, something harder, and something I can trust far more than an opinion. The lines between right and wrong are skewed and dotty and I want nothing more than to be able to forget that they exist, and run into my own horizons, while consciously stepping over them.

I love long train rides, because they make me so grateful for company. They make me so grateful, and they put something back in me that every long day makes me forget I had. I know what you think, you know what I think, there is only little that can be added or subtracted between us anymore. Sitting there, hearing the tracks fly beneath us only makes me thankful that I'm not doing it alone, as silly as it may sound. It makes me thankful that you're here riding the world with me, and that I'll always have your shoulder to rest my head on. Even if it adds or subtracts against my will. My will is nothing more than an opinion.

I wish you all the sunrays and saturdays in the world, as well as perfect rainy evenings seeing the sky turn darker with no want for tears. I wish you many more songs, and many more words that I don't feel the need to say because I know you read it. Perhaps we're too impulsive, but sometimes I feel that the most mature people are those who act on impulse, instead of running in circles of thought and arriving at the same conclusion in the end.

I got the shoes. I bought them on impulse. They're beautiful, and we all know it. Perhaps we need to make more of these purchases once in a while, where we've been blurred by reality, so cleverly disguised as emotion.