around 2p and 21
13 february 2006
they tell me there is a depth of meaning in the cold in the dark in the loud and stupifying wind and that sometimes when i feel a dearth it is because i have turned something off. or because they can feel so similar.
he turns on my love for dead silk flowers, for the shadows underneath raindrops, for the smell of his hair in salt air; the small moments are laden with an intensity and a strength so that i wonder how the larger won't don't break me to pieces.