These meager dribbles of pen & ink are the escape valve of my heart. These lines keep me from loving you, from losing you. These words lie on the page and act as my repository for emotions not acted upon, not felt, only calculated, only intellectualized. These are my words left dumb, my touches restrained, my tears siphoned away, my sex only dreamt. Someday, I wish to no longer have any need for black ink. I wish to wash my hands clean of their dark stains, their smudges, so that I may crumple this paper, eat it whole and let the love I hold come flowing freely from my mouth.
Starting a garden.
16 years ago
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