Name: Rosemary Le
Listening to: Youth Asylum - "Color Everywhere"
Mood Content

I sit here today, watching as the world goes by, as the flies continue to live their simple lives, swarming around this new environment, this new household. I look back, and I wonder...When was the last time I got to see her? When was the last time I got to see those that have now gone, but are still here?

I miss my friends....





(Now here is something I wrote because I was bored to death....)

Sun-Ripened Fruit
I am wondering, at this moment, what it would feel like to plant kisses, nurture growth, down that well-formed line where the rise of your collorbone gives way to the gentle steepness of your shoulder. Soft kisses intent on conveying each minute -- the explosion of tenderness -- learns to love the soft feel of exotic vigor. It is a place where there are no more standoffs in which those who claim to be lovers instead dual to the death, argue for the right to take every breath, and close themselves in.

When two souls stand too close for too long, there will doubtlessly exist friction, and the figments of overactive imagination sugarcoats the bitterness of these crushed up herbs. These spiteful words leave a rotten aftertaste on this tongue, wash away only with time and penance patience exhaustible as it is said to heal wounds left open then salted for reasons of preservation.

There was a time when she believed she could not live without him, ironic that when this whole thing started, what she had cherished most was her independence. As she gradually lost it and did not notice its obsence -- must have mistaken it for oneness and fondness -- became a stranger, but who was she anymore? Really...?

The lack of need for words should have alerted her to the imminent danger. Too many chemicals reactions, too many physical distractions, of her own self in the mirror of stranger -- and stranger it seemed, and more distant it grew, this longing to love without need for apology. And she had almost forgotten what it felt like to be understood, cherished, like the kiss of a child and fragile, like the wings of a dragonfly beating gently against a heart trampled upon too many times.

Do you know what it feels like to sip love from the last straw and hear the dregs sounding empty and hollow?

Reminiscent of indulgences made without thought of consequence, neither completely at fault nor free from all blame -- inner thirstings versus what had really happened or who really mattered when it came down to it. It is possible how these differences are unresolveable now.

But we were never ones to take the easy way out.

I know this word -- love -- but sometimes its manifest is beyond me, and beyond belief as to how the lines of fortune fall where one's destiny intersects with the decisions made in everyday existence. Extended inexperienced fingers reach into breach of conciousness and watch the garnered knowledge spill from the tips of her tongue and her lips. As words formilate to make me whole again, as words formulate to fill this hole left vacant by the suppressed emotion, I vow to keep no longer bound.

The taste of you is like sun-ripened fruit that drops from branches heavy with burden into my cupped and waiting palms.

I am wondering, at this moment, what it would feel like to plant kisses, nurture growth, down that well-formed line where the rise of your collorbone gives way to the gentle steepness of your shoulder. Soft kisses intent on conveying each minute -- the explosion of tenderness -- learns to love the soft feel of exotic vigor. It is a place where there are no more standoffs in which those who claim to be lovers instead dual to the death, argue for the right to take every breath, and close themselves in.