This might be my truth.
Late night on my balcony. Drinking red wine. Feeling melancholy. Wanting more and less at exactly the same time.
Busy busy busy. Run run run. Finding my feet; wrong turns; interesting hurdles.
All the while smiling broadly as life deals a royal flush.
Struggling to write. To put feelings into words.
Struggling to stretch. To push myself any further than the minimum.
Struggling to breathe. Unhealthy body mirrors an unhealthy mind.
Struggling to understand. What? When? And why?
Cool spring nights on my balcony
Edgar Allan Poe (via asia-luna)
Missing this place
Finding it difficult to put my current feelings and thoughts into words. Silence has been easier to manage; cathartic quiet.
It’s easy to take off your clothes and have sex. People do it all the time. But opening your soul to someone, letting them into your spirit, thoughts, fears, future, hopes, dreams… that is being naked.
Soft touches, caresses, feeling comfortable. Security. Freckles dancing across his nose. The sweet smell of lemongrass and rooibos, heightened with honey. Tasting Pinot Noir. Velvet wrapped around my tongue. His head in my lap as I pull my fingers through his hair. The sharp taste of salt, mushrooms steamed in sage. Quiet. Being still and silent and listening to the rain. The way he threw his head back when he laughed, chuckling from deep within his stomach. Orange earplugs unwinding in my ears as I’m wrapped in a worn blue blanket. The word ‘exquisite’, said to me in a heightened, beautiful moment. Feeling sad yet triumphant in the same breath. Waking up to the sound of the ocean, as he dozes quietly beside me. Long, charged staring matches; drowning in his eyes.