May anyone I ever love, know a watercolour version of themselves.
(today, fall in love with an artist)
11 years ago, I met a man whose hands became the flights of crows.
He had- the most charming blog with stories about skelingtons, played in a band, offered me purple fruit and carried a yellow moth inside his bag. I was- spellbound.
I started a blog too- primarily to impress him. I wrote pre-dated posts and badly punctuated poems for him. He broke my heart two weeks later. But I kept writing this blog, and eventually it became into- a stepping stone to my own abundance- the foundation of a now thriving livelihood.
This is how I make- a living.(by loving and loving) (and loving and loving)
We loved each other in this unbearably alternative way for nine years after and a few lifetimes before, balanced emotional scales and scars that we picked up on the street and inherited from our gods till we lostlostlost count, of who did what for whom and how much.
I began to- fear, less. He learnt to love more. And we eventually (recently/suddenly/most definitely) slow drifted away like continents, until one day the best gift I could give him, was silence. (and I’m sorry I tried to love the forest out of you)
All this (lush and neverending) openchest stuff got me thinking about how much I pour into love, and how much love pours into me in return. As creative force moves through- my hands begin to trace in paint, write words/continuously alchemise. And who is to tell where it’s source is and how (and if) love fails. After all, my body is an outpouring of an ancestral love story-an output of somebody’s pleasure. So I continue to pour into love,
and let love pour into me.
