The question of sociopathy hung like heavy doors, weathered and misshapen, hinges slightly buckled. Crippled compassion chose to hide itself in a dark cloak shrugged from the shoulders of a diseased mind. One lie thrust upon another raped what was left- she crawled through her window of separate self.
In the morning I sit with my singing bowl, cupped in palm, and begin the circular movement 'round the outside rim. Vibration travels through the arm, into the chest and down the spine. I am a vessel of love and light- I am whole.
I've thought a lot about it over the past twenty years. Somewhere in the midst of a wool blanket pulled out to pasture, and your muddy socks strewn halfway to midday, I found the meaning of my anxiety. It wasn't so much the dirt making heliocentric circles around the glossy brown, no-wax finish; it was your disregard for knowledge and the pursuit of something that hung so low you could have picked it without a ladder.
I spent too many days wrapped up in words that never...
How am I to comprehend you in a Sunday suit, your starched pinstripe feigning virtue while you sweat buckets in a pair of patent leather sin. I cannot pretend what it is you need under this silky black magnitude of ruffled disappointment. Requirements for tip toeing around what the bedroom represents has buried me in guilt.
There is never enough courage to slip into irreverent contours, your dusty fingertips grazing mangled, canyon depressions and craggy pink...
I do this sometimes- Sit in a booth, alone with My own thoughts; No forced conversations or Nervous fidgeting, Sitting with this cup of warm sweater- Ice cold mornings Sipping until I’ve Overstayed, But never annoyed That you want to Eat and leave. What happened to Staying for dessert- For conversation- For laughs.