feeling: wrapped up in books; wrapped up in dreams, fibs & lies
carrying an artful latte (success in the shape of a sparrow!) to my room for breakfast, i knocked the vase of birthday flowers still beside my radiator. they were dying beautifully; i'd left the stems and tissue-paper orchids to slowly scatter pollen & untraceable patterns. water spills across floorboards, pouring out their sweetness and green decay.
on tuesday night, we walked for hours and sat on a bench overlooking the ocean until we were frozen through. talk of planets becoming stars, people becoming different, conversations between ducks. he said that i remind him of the little girl from 'pan's labyrinth' & there were silences when i had no words to say. perhaps this is how we become dear to one another, but i am not trying to fall. i am heart-pressed; never headlong. i have no desire to change lives.
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