I'll close my eyes. I'll smile. I'll keep quiet.
Tears are nothing and I realize it.
I realize, but I don't want to!
To live, to breathe without you, like you do!

I'll give a hug and run my hand over
Your rough unshaven cheek, my lover.
And I will go away, I'll pass you by with no trick.
But only my heart will be filled with a heart-break.

You're a stranger and I'm a stranger too.
I swear, I won't cry and I won't be blue.
But how can I calm down my heart after all?
I don't want to stop loving you! Forever and whole!

I always feel
like I am behind.
Like everyone else knows
The secret, or look at me
with those kind, sad eyes...
"You'll get there, honey...
in 10 years' time."

Okay, so maybe
I am a little beyond.
I come to things so **** late.
But at least I own my mind.

I choose my way!
Even if it's a pebbled path in the desert...
That goes round and round,
and round in circles so things aren't unlearned.

But when I look up;
take my nose out of a book,
I see that I am still reading Jane Eyre
other than cinematic thrillers with never-ending hooks.

Even today,
As I ponder this profound?
thought, I make sure I slurp coffee, [yay!!]
observe with all my senses, surround...

(for the one who stands at the edge, where the fabric begins to fall)

She had once been known—
but only through a portrait
painted in the shades of misunderstanding.

A silhouette mistaken for substance.
A voice mimicked before it ever found
its own breath.

She knows this.
And so the chains that bind her now
are not forged of cruelty,
but memory—
a memory that clings to who she was
before she could ever choose to become.

And still, she dreams of the sunlight.
Of fabric falling, not ripped—
but released.
Softly.
Willingly.
In the warmth of a gaze that promises
no weight will be added
to the skin that already bore so much.

She does not want to be reclaimed.
She wants to be re-seen.

Not as the story once told,
but as the story now unfolding.
A woman not returning,
but arriving.

And if the beholder must grieve
the version of her he once adored,
so be it—

for only in that grief
can he welcome the miracle
of what is finally, freely,
and beautifully real;

and  hope upon hope--

     not one of his own chains
     in sight

A polite smile,
a wave..

And everything,  unknowable
is made so flowable.

Thus is the world.
Thus is your world.


I will choose to die in obscurity
unknowable, too.  No gravestone
No memory.

Nothing.

Thus is my world
created by a world

so intentionally, unknowable.

It is not a lake of fire,  sweet one

It is a place  that tells us
  that we are Loved


The only thing that burns
is the View,  seen from a distance..
from across the Chasm

--One that,  before its over
will no longer exist.

True story. xox

What if I'm right..
and the  strange things  I do
(that seem so "cruel" to you)
are the only way that you can finally
become  able  to  truly see?  
What if what you once felt  to be cruel
entended up being the most  loving
thing you've ever experienced?  
I'm not downplaying what I've done
  or trying to minimize it
or justify my actions in any way at all..
I am just trying to tell you that the
original damage went into you with
severity and it's own form of selfish
violence.  

Breaking that severity can never be a very pretty thing.

What if my love for you,  and the
strange way that I do it
is the only thing that would have
  ever worked

to help you to finally have a chance?



I am broken too.. and  the only way I
can truly enter into your brokenness

     is when your  brokenness


b re a k s



              against mine.