love is so short, forgetting is so long
"and it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in search of me. i don't know, i don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. i don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street i was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from others, among violent fires, or returning alone,
there i was without a face
and it touched me
-pablo neruda
i wandered the halls of a charming little bookshop hidden in the heart of minneapolis. row upon row of worlds trapped between bindings.
it feels like rain; each word falling on my skin and saturating every inch of my conscienceness.
books are my escape.
i forget the the dissapointed looks of my father that penetrate each layer of my fortress-like heart.
i forget the tears slipping like secrets down my best friend's face when he tells me he feels like he's lost me.
i forget the lies he injected like heroin in my veins.
through the words of others written on pages fragile beneath my hopeful fingertips, i am able to forget.
♥
there i was without a face
and it touched me
-pablo neruda
i wandered the halls of a charming little bookshop hidden in the heart of minneapolis. row upon row of worlds trapped between bindings.
it feels like rain; each word falling on my skin and saturating every inch of my conscienceness.
books are my escape.
i forget the the dissapointed looks of my father that penetrate each layer of my fortress-like heart.
i forget the tears slipping like secrets down my best friend's face when he tells me he feels like he's lost me.
i forget the lies he injected like heroin in my veins.
through the words of others written on pages fragile beneath my hopeful fingertips, i am able to forget.
♥