You are a single sheet of loose leaf paper, desiring for anyone to place inside their trapper-keeper, to put pen to it and write your love, your story, your feeling into words of authentic affirmation. Erasing again and again, until there are visceral holes in it, has left your weary, calloused hands empty and longing for more and I can feel you striding toward me, like a lion to prey, like a vulture to the dead carcass that is my wasting, wounded heart. Your eyes followed my body as it led itself outdoors and I felt you reaching toward me, to stop me, to grab my hand and yank me back into existence, and reality. Life words cannot breathe actuality back into my dead soul; I am not a balloon that needs inflation, as you are who I am. Are you depth? Are you intelligence? Are you everything a woman could desire, and more? Perhaps. But you are also wild. You are outrageously insecure. Your longing for something else only mirrors my desires and then what? We’re both left broken and eviscerated by lackluster love that has reached no depth, no intelligence, and hasn’t fulfilled any desire we have undoubtedly outlined secretly. Looks could become touches, touches to lingering hugs, and lingering hugs to casual love and then comes heartache and heartbreak. I miss your signals, I miss your lighthouse indicators, I miss your wandering eyes but little do you know, it’s fully purposeful and I’m avoiding you. Avoidance. At. All. Costs.
Have you heard your voice lately? The one you use on Sunday morning. I am intoxicated by it.
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