I think of closeness
i think of you
of raw hearts
open, bleeding, real
our ugliness, strangeness, heavenliness, opened and closed
the tenderness shared,
connected by a string between two raw hearts…
i crave it in every moment
I’m sorry dear, I’ve been selfish: it’s hard to see clearly when I’m stuck in a fog of my own sadness.
I don’t often get to hold something so delicate and beautiful, I need to be more gentle with you.
And I think I know what I want:
Expansion of my mind; experience; understanding and knowledge; the ability to see the world as it truly is, but to still relish in its beautiful things.
But I can tell you that I notice things more, especially pretty things, like the bed of tiny wild white flowers growing on the side of the road, pinpoints of starlight amid a field of green. And the huge orange rose blooming out of Scott’s rundown garden, a miniature sun in a universe of dead leaves. I notice the exact curve of June’s little cat cheeks as she rests her chin on my blanket. And piano keys, so straight and orderly like teeth, begging me to place my fingers on them and bring them to life. I even notice the soggy, muddy newspaper laying on the sidewalk, squished and sad in its package, either carelessly discarded or never collected by its intended recipient.
I have found myself taking pictures of flowers and I think it’s because of you.