I read once about a woman whose secret fantasy was to have an affair with an artist.

Tilting her neck to the side, her eyes followed the movements of a boy covered in paint and dirtied by charcoal. She wondered who he thought about as his brush hit the canvas and even more when the canvas hit the trash. Writing, she thought, is much the same. And she wondered why things that people were so passionate about couldn't come out more naturally. Words, she thought, aren't my problem. It's the presentation of such. And much the same, love is more easily felt than conveyed when we're left to our own devices and time to think.

Outside, a bird ran in to a powerline. It's song had never been so lovely than at the last of chords, and she had never been more sure of home than when she'd stepped outside to see an artist, disappointed in his own creation (heart.)

warforme.

Woven through your fingertips is the very heart you stole from me, and buried between your lips is the breath that I gave so happily to fill your lungs - with which you sing to me so softly. My ears are warm from whispers shared too long ago, and my nerves are shot from the lack of your fingertips sliding along my spine and forcing them to wake.

This night feels like traintracks as bedsheets and losing sight at the first of dawn. As though it could go on forever, these dreams die in my shadow and wake in the sadness of your voice, and I am left to wonder about these steps that we've taken. So seemingly hard, and yet I rest assured that the end of this pathe will come in the form of brownandgreen and eskimo kisses.

song of songs 6:3

My heart's a waiting room, a brokeninto tomb, a rock that doesn't roll and yet still attracts no moss. My faith's a rusted fence, a cityskyline with no room for stars nor patience for questions. And my body's a dying breed, breathing only for the sake of, "I know no other way." These thoughts are aging athletes and time is setting the score, ruining habits with state lines and verses I'd tried to ignore. All that's left to do is sing myself to sleep, but the chords inside of me are breaking at their own performance.

The worst mistakes are those you reap yet hadn't sewn.

Good morning lossofsleep and linesblurredbytears, pardon the neglect but I almost thought I'd escaped your wake. Isn't it funny how we never really reach the shore until we find purpose in the travel? Just like merchandise won't sell until the morning before you realize it's worth. Well, hello tiresome, you've knocked on my door (eyelids) just in time for me to think there's a dream worth having. I saw a dry day just in time to implode on regrets and revelations.

I bought a pack of camels but I never really smoke.

The spots on the wood match the bruises on my legs and I'm not sure if I like this ache because it means success or because it means I can still feel something at all. The softest melody I've heard in a year comes from a guitar player on stage who's singing about how he misses Colorado winters and the presence of God in the form of snowflakes. What brings a man in love with 40below to Georgia in July? I wonder if he lays awake at night, trying to find the scent of Denver woven in the plaster dots on his ceiling. I pray to God that I've never been Georgia to my brownandgreen Colorado winter.

well look at me, still thinking of myself.

An undressed four year old looked me in the eye and told me that he hated himself. Part of me hated the way that it was a thousand times more genuine than a politican has ever spat in my direction and part of me quivered at the way that his broken heart hadn't even been given a chance. Mine, mine, mine was the only word he could speak confidently and his knuckles were the only ball he'd ever managed to toss with the assurance that it would be caught.

Four hours away from my own home was a rundown trailer surrounded by woods and filled by a group of people who had no idea what the next morning would bring. My heart broke and my throat twisted and I almost lost my lunch: from the stench of poor living conditions and the lack of life. Good luck, four year old; good luck in the world that's looking to break your already tangled heart.

conversations with the wind.

It's in between the lines of a broken record and at the bottom of the lake in a drought. It's at the peak of the mountain that you'd never climb and it's the crack in the window you've been meaning to fix. It's exactly what you need, but you'll never set your sights on. It's what you're reaching for, fighting for, it's the hit or miss that you keep losing with and it's the sound of a bird when you don't want to be awake.

What's right is almost always what's hard. It's always worth it, but no one sucks it up anyway.