Somewhere out there our shadows embrace and create light.
Every face becomes a memoir.
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 would it take to get there? 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.