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5: 87: We Are The Story
Excerpt 87 from Journal 5, 'Reaching My True Love'
-from 'Journals To My True Love, Part 2'
My Love, you become the story, fragmented and
dispersing slowly...
I let you go; this replaces the intense passion as you
become lines; notions; whims, where you ever
anything more?
As the story unravels you become it... I believed
in you, yet never did, but I believed in the story...
I have no story; but I have you to let me tell it...
From nothingness you arose... Into the air I saw
you rise...
A thousand men inside you that I have known...
And you so deftly constructed and defined...
Construct me now to recieve me as I have recieved
you; we shall become this story...
For I am no one and neither are you...
In life how I never loved, but how intensely I loved you...
How my pen ran your blood blackened onto paper
notebooks; I bled you dry as pens ran out...
I painted you in words so cohesive as your atoms
vibrating like your pulsing soul...
This pulse was the story; how it resonated with my
own and mirrored it for you are but me and we
are all but nothing...
We stand together in this paradox where nothing
matters and we hold hands in a grand charade
which endlessly flows in vain...
All we are left of is our own air; our nascent spirits...
And the only testament is this story...
How fervently it spills onto a blank page and how
time-worn its pace...
As our faces fade so do we as sun in late afternoon...
Setting into a horizon we slowly shrink and fade...
I would die for you to live; for us to thrive...
How I would simply die to tell our story...
-from 'Journals To My True Love, Part 2'
My Love, you become the story, fragmented and
dispersing slowly...
I let you go; this replaces the intense passion as you
become lines; notions; whims, where you ever
anything more?
As the story unravels you become it... I believed
in you, yet never did, but I believed in the story...
I have no story; but I have you to let me tell it...
From nothingness you arose... Into the air I saw
you rise...
A thousand men inside you that I have known...
And you so deftly constructed and defined...
Construct me now to recieve me as I have recieved
you; we shall become this story...
For I am no one and neither are you...
In life how I never loved, but how intensely I loved you...
How my pen ran your blood blackened onto paper
notebooks; I bled you dry as pens ran out...
I painted you in words so cohesive as your atoms
vibrating like your pulsing soul...
This pulse was the story; how it resonated with my
own and mirrored it for you are but me and we
are all but nothing...
We stand together in this paradox where nothing
matters and we hold hands in a grand charade
which endlessly flows in vain...
All we are left of is our own air; our nascent spirits...
And the only testament is this story...
How fervently it spills onto a blank page and how
time-worn its pace...
As our faces fade so do we as sun in late afternoon...
Setting into a horizon we slowly shrink and fade...
I would die for you to live; for us to thrive...
How I would simply die to tell our story...
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