Exposed

I wrote this quite a while ago. But I love it still. The woman who ispired it will always be a part of me, although we never met.
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It is a long way from here to there and I am weary from traveling these great distances in my head. I have been so stoic in my life and now this. I wonder often now about fate and continuums. How karma plays into lives like snowfalls in April. And with a desire made odd by it's until recent irregularity I travel the cities finding the perfect place to be what I've become.

And hoping you might follow.

I do not often permit myself such fancy but in fantasy, there are no boundaries and this makes me bold. In my mind I stand tall and strong and speak distractedly of madness and am awed by your continued advancement in my general direction. We play matches of button-push and shove and tug and neither loses ground and I find myself pacing or jumping in place trying to get this weird shift of gravity to fall back into place. Nothing in life can be so natural, so old and comfortable and yet you are an ages old warm blanket or the too soft shirt I still wear, refusing to part with it in tatters because this shirt brings me the good luck. I rub myself down trying to find in you the odd sharp thread that nicks all day at one place on my skin till it is raw and cannot find it.

I am stirred in ways no being has ever stirred me and it brings me running here, to this place where I write, to put down too long sentences and jumbled thoughts of this thing I am in the middle of. This thing that seems to have always been. And leave it here, exposed like me, hoping you might find it.