I can’t recall feeling like this before, I can recall feeling slightly similar to this, not nearly as comfortable or safe. But it did exist in some part of me. And perhaps that’s why I’m a bit shaken, a bit pessimistic. I suppose I always knew what I needed, but was too comfortable with being uncomfortable that ive stunted my own love. Whatever “this” is, I want it to grow. And flourish and being nurturing.

I enjoy, being made pizza and brekkie Watching Topgear, Dr. Who, and Blue Planet. Star gazing. Cuddling a cute cat. Snuggling a handsome dude. Sweeping. Sleeping in. Wine. English tea.

All of which I got to experience over the past 24 hours. So I’m a bit chummy right now.

For a few hours, everything stopped, and I spent a Sunday for once, not alone. A bit muddled. A bit baffled, filled with muffins, eggs and coffee, comforted, or something along those lines. I guess that’s happiness, or contentment. Watching your favourite programme with a nice person who has a french press, and realizing, maybe somebody might care.

Every man is an opinion of a woman’s love, every woman is an opinion of a man’s pining.

Speculation is not the minds doing, it is an overt distraction of the heart. It stems from a stripped pulse, the thicker thread. Assumption that no love lives silent between words, and imagination. The speculation of kind smiles, or chinny conversation. The bellied side of a bloom. How no gentle gesture is a simple gesture of its gest. The gruesome appeal in attraction, and the thwarted trials we endear amongst our own salvation. Never entrust your yearly wage with a worried man. Never entrust your frail frame with a fortunate soul. Never crumble between a boys seedy palms in a bible study. Never near the idea of love, As it lowers your expectations of the rest of humanity when humility is the result of vulnerability.

The extention of the skins thinner walls, A abstract composure of chords, muscles, nerves. Of chalk laden cement in the early afternoon. Bustling noises of mechanisms, I wrapped in wool waver from a hard mattress. Damp cold encircled my cheeks, and my toes, the only exposed point of flesh. Lungs are loose with mucus, Sapped of surplus from the springs newer tickling. It’s all sunflowers and lilac bushes. The dream state of confusion in the daylight. Of a fathers hopes. The daughters beauty bountiful and blue.

I cut all ties before it becomes too much of a burden. Lord only knows I won’t compromise my innocence again.

Sleep feels like a constant battle.

Multiplied misspellings, the musings, misogynistic. Every wide eyed alteration, falsely flayed its wound upon my weeping walls. Swooning, its a separation of desperation between infatuation and logical misgivings.

Illusive ill fitted forms, the deaf dwellings we isolate ourselves into, tulips toiling in the sun. So September passed so severe and October was a dead horse, Hollow and harmonious, in a manic manipulation. Thus half blood has melted into strange hands, How I fall for the childish of men, The wolves of the bar, battering women into a booth. bartering with booze and prose. Such is the sun in the end. The summer solstice, I kindly saw his eyes to be., His beady smile, I s’pose im a loose cannon, a catered cat, a cartridge for the kindling.

A killing cost. No apologetic apathy binds my arms to my knees, I no longer long for the loose threads of poetry, the theoretic emendation of emaciation from romance. I only hold high, the truth, of a man. The gentle touch from a friend. Though I stumble strikingly, hap hazardously, I humble my own heart with my mediocre melodies. That I, immaculately melt into honesty, with grace and grievance.