But You Can't Bring A Metaphor To A Gun Fight

The kind of person that makes you believe you are a masterpiece, but touches you like you are the first drops of rain after a long drought, and treats you like you put the stars and the moon in the night sky, be with them.

I feel her body out like a paragraph, but not like the ones I teach my high school kids; she’s no five point essay - she’s much too advanced. She’s not missing components, I mean sometimes she slips into the past tense, but hell don’t we all every now and then? At least she’s not misspelt. And I swear, I swear I’m not proofreading to show that I have a degree in this; This is me reading for pleasure. She has too much that she’s trying to prove. She carries herself like an apology. I want to tell her this but I don’t because that would mean another apology. In silence I observe the side glances cast away in far away thought that words just barely graze the surface of. I know what she’s trying to say in everything she doesn’t; she purposely fails to communicate. The numerous fragments in her expression are metaphors for the brevity of human connection. I look at her and I realize that Atlas never shrugged but instead relieved himself of whelm by placing the burden on her shoulders. Perhaps it was that same mass which drew me into her orbit, a most literal worldly allure. Yet it is never gravity which compels the pen to meet paper. Her eyes are elegies in the monsoon rain under the faint glow of the moon, marked by the perpetual grey, and, of course, the sweet scent of earth. Her mind is a flower caught in mid bloom, and if she refuses to be watered with conversation it is because she would much rather write (be written) in silence. (please be advised that words spoken aloud are, often times, the most vile pollutants endangering one’s health and sanity; please be mindful of others as you are encouraged to exercise your own discretion) It is the nature of all apologies to bear their own justification. “I am sure you have bled. But you have not seen the shade of your own blood until you have bled on paper.”

I don’t want to be heard, I want to be listened to.

When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity - in freedom…

I always have difficulty with people who are not openly warm, expressive. I need a certain sign, a certain invitation.

Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and also more hard to bear. The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden: it is easier to say My tooth is aching than to say My heart is broken.

Like most sensitive souls, you already know you’re sensitive. You soak up others’ moods and desires like a sponge. You absorb sensation the way a paintbrush grasps each color it touches on a palette.