Life is like a worn out, old, tattered t-shirt, and my favorite one at that. This materialistic item is something that I am comfortable in, but would not be caught dead in, in public. Life is similar to that of a spinning turbine, a turbine which appears harmless much like a fan spinning, a bee pollinating, or even the dew on a petal of a flower. It seems so sleek so shiny, enticing in every which way, much like the lust that drips upon someone’s lips for their most sensual desire. The color pink is the truest color with the mix of purity and dark betrothed color of the crimson red that mixes so commonly, every evening of every day. The moment of life meets death, when exhilaration meets exaltation, the moment which defines a life. The life of you the life of me.
I love him so much he means the world to me, and he knows that, sometimes there is that boundary which neither of us can cross, because of morality, and reality. He is all I could ever ask for in a friend, a listener and someone who would soothe me, ease me of my pain. I enjoy his conversations and cannot seem to grip the reality of either of our separate lives that cannot be both lived in the same setting. A place where we can both envision ourselves beneath the stars, ut never amongst them. The dorks on the bench at prom but never the king and or queen, never us never a we. I love him, but he cannot love me, if he loves me it is not the way I love him, more than what love is, more than what it can ever mean. I thought I lost my inspiration, the reason to write, to sustain myself. But not just to sustain, to thrive for you, my inspiration, my love I could never ask for more of you. ‘’
