directional
dredging myself to look for desire, the only one i can find is the craving for sleep. but when i sleep i dream of writing, and when i write i dream of you.
i’ve so often accused you in (semi) jest of being a god, just because of the way my life arranges itself around you. it’s a strange and tricky sort of path i’m walking, one that twists and turns and conspires to stay under my feet no matter where i step. i know where it leads, and that it is not possible to go faster or slower or differently.
hoarder
yes, i’ve been avoiding this, this putting words on pages, or letting them tumble too fluidly from my mouth: i am as possessive of you as ever, and as fearful of your evaporation.
that’s wrong, of course: you yourself are as free as a feather (at least, i’m committed to that position) but i keep a tight grip on the ripples you make in me, a miser counting words and fingering memories, ordering and reordering emotions like an obsessive librarian.
(Source: nu-thort)
“If there was no death, everyone would wish for it.”
— Sadegh Hedayat (via earlyfrost)
(Source: derradiokopf)
