transbay paper scratches

With all that my life is and has been, how can my heart still be so fragile?

Cursed in the infatuation with romance, cursed by something fueled by the need for a life that dances with poetry, cursed by dreams and condemned to the permanent adolescence of the heart, the symptom of the disease, the disease is romance. The disease is a blessing. What else but the heart of a child can see utopia in grains of sand and a bucket?

 

Hopeless? Yes, but look again.

Look again.

In all of the words, in all of the lines somewhere between there is hope.

 

What is a hopeless romantic without hope?

Perhaps I am a fool but I prefer to think not. Perhaps a fool and if so I would rather be a fool with dreams than an empty man with a paper heart. I don’t suffer fools well.

 

I kissed you with all of me. I kissed you with the life of me and felt yours. I kissed you with my heart and there was only one then, only one between us and it was ours and in your arms, in your eyes there was no need for words.

 

Perhaps I am a fool but I prefer not to think so. If I am I will suffer myself gladly. Better a fool still believing in romance and the flight of dreams than a heart that dies of starvation. I only ask for anything but silence.  Anything. Either spit in my face or kiss it once again. In your silence nothing is complete and I vanish.

5 responses to “transbay paper scratches

  1. thank you, sweets. I really appreciate that.
    I’ve quickly grown to really enjoying the bus ride across the bay – such a perfect solitude, the kind that i find in anonymous cafe’s before I know anyone in the cities I visit – I only wish that the rides were longer…

  2. I was looking back in your journals, to try to figure out who the girl you spoke of might be (being a curious monkey that I am), and I came upon this. I have to say, even though I’ve said it before and will likely say it again, that you write so beautifully, and in ways that I can identifiy with like no one else who lives and breathes in this century. Some people merely have poetry inside of them, while others are made of ink and paper, words and rhymes, loves and losses. I suspect that you are the latter, and it pleases me to no end that I have the privelage of knowing you, even if only from half-way around the world. I sincerely hope that this is the beginning of a long friendship.

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