1.12.09/1.14.09/Wild

1.12.09

He opened the door
And watched her walk into rooms
Patterned with his habits
Colored by his dreams
Darkened by his fears
Lit, brilliantly, by his love

He opened the door
And watched her walk slowly
Through the museum of his heart
Touching the art on its walls
Slowly, slowly
Watched her memorize the
Textures, the colors, the shadows
The years of who he is
Watched her imagine
The years of who he will be

And she said,
"It's beautiful. I want to live here."

1.14.09

It is said that today is the climax of winter, the coldest day of the year. I feel it. In my bones, my slow-moving blood, my frigid extremities. I feel it. In my restless, aching heart. Even the sun is hiding its face from the world. Can I too? How wonderful it would feel to slip under, behind, beneath...to relax, forget, breathe, to stop the world and melt.

Wild

"Wild is anything that's not at home." I am not at home. I am wild inside. Wild with longing, with dreams, with the throb of suffering inside these walls of paper.