But in the mist of happiness, warmth, authenticity and familiarity, I find my walls higher than ever. Stretching to the clouds above me, towering over me in hopes of protection.
I'm unable to look at his mass of leaves. I'm unable to respond to his voice. I'm unable to be at his presence.
Stupid,
stupid
me.
YOU ARE READING
HIM
Poetry[Highest: #994 in poetry lol] He's exotic and eccentric. The way he speaks, the way he moves: so gracefully but also so carelessly. As is the way his spirit is childish and interesting but aged and mundane. He's a mystery I'm starting to get hooked...
