Wednesday, October 06, 2010


you were a witch with your short hair. an air without care, a tinge of debonair. your ever sultry listless prerogative. it seemed a program that i endeared wholeheartedly. when tear become tears. anguish came in a bluish tint and black. these are the bruises from the marrow of your bones.

we raged many battles on top of the hills. and war seemed to be the tonto of our atlas. at the fold of everything, there were foals on the field. as we watched and catch ourselves humming about flying balloons on this fuel called love. at the end of it we tumbled down the hill and found our faces dirty with war paint. still we linger closer together. knowing that we went through carpentry, having stolen possibilities.

are we in disguise with orange peels over our eyes? it seemed to be, a momentary catharsis. as we question the question that brought us to our epiphany. none can squander the plethora of trails this leads to. and the cause that, you have already happened.

at the end it became the start, as we decided to head home. the weather was celebrating as we ran together all the way home.

i don't love you. perhaps i do, for how do i explain my longing for you - pablo neruda


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