There's a certain kind of comfort in the thought of you. The frightening and dangerous, Yet sheltered. Chrysalistic. As the wind blows and the skies darken...
This is an acquired taste. Like me. Like black truffle honey. And though the sun still shines warm and soft for now, I want nothing more than to be with you in the rain.
These are war games.
I'm poised and ready. I read the terrain. Climb dunes and cross battlefields. Improvise, adapt, overcome. Necessity is the mo... Well, you know....
All of a sudden I appreciate my fears as the warnings that keep me safe here. I feel safe here... under friendly fire. Bruised and bleeding but familiar.
I try to secure the high ground. Establish the advantage. Strategy lingering under my finger nails as my grip on comfortable defense fails. What happens to a soldier after the war... This threat is my own and falls at my feet as I turn to secure a tactical distance. I am at war with desertion.
Youa are no enemy, No threat to me. You'll as soon just fade away... And I find myself un-threatened. Unattacked. Uninjured.
But I've grown inside a thorn bush. I don't know what to do with the open air. And as an oyster would refuse to give up her pearl, these grains of sand contribute to my Self. So I nurture the small ****** that will be there for me when I've forgotten how to bleed..