That wonderfully blissful moment when I realize I do not need anyone is also when I have the most love to give.
Cynicism is a hangover caused by an excess of romanticism.
Sometimes I look for words. Other times they look for me.
It is the sort of romance that would compel me to write a sonnet if I could only find the words.
My hands have touched few but my heart compensates by holding many.
It is raining outside and I look out the window that teases me with the possibility of a life lived. I haven’t checked my mailbox for days and I try to convince myself to care.
The idea of walking to it with linear purpose overwhelms me with boredom. I wonder: How many acrobatic back flips it would take to reach it? How many balletic twirls? Flutters of my eyelashes? Sexy high heeled, hip swaying struts? Loud black-booted stomps?
I open up a spreadsheet, excited, for once, to do mathematics. I create columns, rows and categories; I measure distances and prepare formulas for calculations. I grow bored and wonder: how would these calculations go if my fingers were calloused, nail-bitten and strong? If they were long and slender with nails painted in eye-dazzling varnish? If they tapped with the the tickle of a ladybug’s legs?
Time passes. One more day without the mail.
“The stars do not brush against us, thus they conserve their splendor.” (Baltasar Gracian)
Words of wisdom to be heeded by Romantics everywhere.
There is nothing so sad as an unfulfilled dream–save for the slaying of one at the time of its unfortunate fulfillment.