is it the ever flowing images that keep me "going", that keep me "from moving"?
quite confusing, in both ways.
in some ways they allow the blood in my veins to rush to my cheeks when I chose, even sometimes by surprise, but in others, I can barely fathom a moment without them, the memories.
if I were to be living without the images of you, I suppose I would begin to visit you in dream; like someone I have never met but would like to.
you are a dream in all honestly...at least now you are.
there is a nauseating rush now, like a cracked mosaic, like a weak cherry tree in the late fall, like an yelled secret in outer space; and all I suppose is real, are the words I say in my sleep, the longing I remember when I wake, the pain I feel later in the day when I try and remember every arrangement of letters than passed my lips, your fruit punch stained ones.
a third is good, a third is bad, and the other third is neutral...
stuck in the middle, consuming both the good and the bad, blending in camouflage.
I cannot tell which is which.
-Julia Aubrey Rhodes-