I live, naked and nervous and curious, at the peak of a waterfall. Though strong are my intentions, I have but to blink to find myself taking the dangerous, ever present hand of gravity and leaping into the rocks beneath me. Delicious is the fall, devastating is the impact. Never, ever, ever will i learn.
All the world is poetry.
I want a home. I want a cozy, constant thing that is mine and that is yours and that is ours. I want a white and grey backdrop for the colors of our happiness, sadness, passion, anger, zest, frustration, intensity, and love. I want a drawer full of the kinds of band-aids that you put on the scraped knees of children versus the kind that people place over the scraped hearts of lovers in hopes that all the pain will just go away. I want a home in which truth and faith abound and life knows no limits.
Words. They live in my nerve endings, as real as pain or pleasure or the in-betweens. Words —- scattered, unintelligible — pushing and pulling like magnets, creating pressures and lapses like so many neuroses infinitely undiagnosed.