I can’t write.
I am writing.
Where do I start?
I strive for the higher plane of the lessons of my split and split I am indeed
Between the intense joy of life and freedom and the everyday missing her
I think I know what love can be and we didn’t have enough
Not to the depths and textures that we both want
The depth and texture is mine. Hers is the sweeter, purer love of a newer soul.
Look at me so lofty
Not so lofty now
Then life then Paris throws in my face this is love remember this is love but it’s love I can’t have so what do I do with it Paris tell me?
That is not love it is want it is projection it is past it is it is it is NOT how my void sees it
Its source showed me love perhaps of more value and depth than what my void wants
She gave me love this weekend
Books candles humanity comfort
Home from home