Her scarf high, my pinion; knight and lady ( Read more... )

Love is like a cigarette. It will kill you if you give it your heart, but you never forget the taste.

I received a song in my mail from Heather. Nothing else, just a nude mp3 looking at me expectantly. After having listened, once, I began my work. I am a problem-solver and as communication this had a meaning to discover. I slept on it, listened again, then went to work [the paying kind ( Read more... )

Weekend was good. Worked Saturday until three, then picked lavender from people's gardens while I walked to my Nana's house. I've never visited her before, by myself I mean and by my own volition. She brought out some home-made biscuits [I think grandmothers metabolise biscuits] and we drank tea in her conservatory. We talked for almost three ( Read more... )

I have written small notes in my ubiquitous journal, including two pre-drafts of a poem, but every time I write a nice entry in there I seem to miss a day of sleep and then the world comes crashing down the next day - I can't concentrate, and several times I wept openly at my desk ( Read more... )

I had a nightmare today - the memory of what exactly is hazy, but I awoke feeling more alone than I have before ( Read more... )

The echo of the knife I give/gave you still cuts as deep as it once did, though it's now by my hand. This compulsive despairing that I am now trying to turn to motivation. Conservation of energy has been too long a bust industry of my heart ( Read more... )

"Pornography is just shadows on a wall," my hand moving from her hip traces the curve up "this is the fire." and there's a snap of lightning as my thumb brushes across her nipple; and I catch the briefest of smiles from her porphyric lips before the thunder rolls through an empty room.

And, there, behind the glass; in the seamless migration of clouds from right to left, across a sky fading from purest blue to a dirty lavender and an earth reaching with fingers of 'crete and smoke, I would like to have found god. There was but myself, unimpassioned, addressing the minutiae of phenomena in a marriage so inexpressably (though not ( Read more... )

Balancing my newly increased sense of wonder and calm at mundane beauty, such as just the right amount of sun coming over the trees to light my room orange and tickle my skin, has been the frequent skirting around a deep pit of loss ( Read more... )