Not to be!

what kind of satiation do hearts long for? the heart is unsettled in public, in loneliness. what is it searching for? and why it is not ready to settle for what i find? what does it want? to break out of my ribs? as hard as it beats on slights. it just wants violence for me. blood and ruin. it likes to thud hearty loud so i know it's there. it's got violence on it's mind, i tell you hearts are gonna kill us all.

"how can i care for you? when all my life i haven't even cared for myself. it gets tiring, my hands fold into themselves. everytime you tell me something you want of me, it leaves me a little hopeless. my fingers they tremble with intimidation of something they can't hold down or very well grasp. i cannot go any further, my bones are shrinking, i have to look out for myself too, i can't carry your heavy solemn letters anymore, i have to burn them, throw them out, shred them to spare my sanity"

it is too much, lightly having strong coffee near window in pouring rain, wearing plain cosy beige sweaters, listening to melancholic slow pacing music , lying on bed for days reading the same book, contemplating small encounters, leaving things in the middle; being too vulnerable too soon, feeling an enormous desire to run out and experience all things, yet the yearning for safety of four walls. Small vivid, lucid dreams. Slight downpours of rain, that still allow you to go for a walk. Standing on lonely footpaths watching cars hum through rain. Just being aware of all the senses. it is too much.

Soft silk sheets, lighting candles, chocolate and handwritten letters, drizzling rain and cosy beds. Being in complete harmony with yourself, aware. Knowing what you are, and being in settlement with it. Satiated. Doing without expecting. Being. Existing with the essence.

inch by inch i am balancing a flood in me

A wet road in rainy Paris, you in your brown jacket, me in my black turtleneck. Without umbrella. Rushing to a small coffee shop nearby. Our classics in our hands. Our bags on our shoulders. Two youths. Immersing in the rain. We go inside the small cozy cafe. Dripping. Sit across. You give me your jacket. I don't take it. I don't want you to be cold. We discuss our books. I tell you about Jane Austen; fragility and femininity. You tell me about Dostoevsky; brutality and murder. Our coffees arrive. We wait for the rain to stop and head towards nearest museum.