E. E. *******’s “I like my body when it is with your body”. On completion of the reading, I noticed that there is a type of love. Foreign and inaudible to me.
And never have I been loved as such.
He wrote about her. What a treat, to be with someone I inspire so much that he would write such careful words about me.
What is sad?
That I have loved in a similar way. Writing, expressing your beauties.
What is sad?
In turn, I have never been loved and written of. Never felt it. And so I hope someday I am with a someone who not only loves me openly, but secretly, in solitude, with a pen and paper.

(In progress)

It's been a long time.

Fields of orange trees are torn
from their roots
to make room for
a thousand empty wooden boxes to be
planted in their place
There these empty boxes wait
longing
for the warmth of a family
To be furnished
And painted
And remembered
and
How it longs
To watch kids play
safely in its living room
To have the dog trample
through it's
neatly cared for lawn
To smell dads cooking
fill every square foot
To see moms face
when she finally returns
from a long day of work
To have love absorbed into its fibers
and stand out amongst the rest
To be decorated for the passing seasons
with other things besides
rust and snow
It dreams of these
things
It knows it could be more than
just a box
So there it sits
And sighs
And waits

It's been a long time.

fragments of life
scattered on the photoshop floor
discarded moments
deleted before fully developed

urgency depicted as living for today
overexposing the instantaneous
cropping a disjointed existence
from the bitmap of impatience

why the aversion to time's darkroom
where future's blur slowly comes into focus
giving clarity to the contiguous
splicing realization from potential

cut to ending...

a panoramic view of destiny's horizon
where paths converge but never vanish

They say it's wise
to never fall in love with
a poet.
They say a poet is
troubled and hurt
that they are constantly
tortured.
They say a poet is in love
with everybody at once,
that if you fall,
you're nothing special.
They say a poet despises
the human condition.
They say a poet doesn't have
money and never will.
They say a lot of things about
poets.
But I'm sure they've never heard
what a poet has to say about them.
Because if they did,
they would find it impossible
not to love a poet.