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Lacking
Sunday, September 21, 2014 || 5:40 PM
(i like how white and vast library tables are — i'd want to counter them by spilling my notes all over the table)
Genuine, inescapable fear that I will fail again. I do not want the escalating promise building in my throat: yet I wonder why I am not trying.
(I admit I think this sometimes)
Tuesday, September 16, 2014 || 12:16 AM
I'm not drowning in anything — lacking is the relentless and unfaltering passion I've always desired. I want to be more sure of this than anything else in the world; for standstills to finally make sense (I want to know why people hunger the way they do). I want to be able to write volumes of poetry with every syllable of your name and every brush of your skin.
I feel like I cannot. This should not bother me but it does, it does.
New sort of feelings
Saturday, September 6, 2014 || 10:50 PM
You have the loveliest eyes I have ever known — I want them to read me for days. Your gaze is a prefix to the knots in my stomach; I often want to hold your hand mid-sentence. You are filled with warmth and I am trying to make my vessel fire-proof to contain it all. This may not have been the passion I've always desired (you do not beget tumultuous paroxysm ... ok sometimes) but it is the steady calm I've received: tucked so neatly in my back pocket there is nothing I can do but provide it a home.
So here I am. Open, for you.
(I miss you even through the nights, I miss you through the eight-hour separations, I miss you through the spaces between my fingers and the air between the spaces.)
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