(no subject)
She writes…
“She kissed, as if she, ALONE, were forging the signature of the sun.
If I were in front of you right now I would want some solstice to sign.”
I never know if I’ve given away too much of myself, or not enough, but either way I can always feel the sting of having lost *something*. I recoil from the things I’ve said and anticipate a cold shoulder, at least that would be reliable.
This has all been built on something terribly unsteady (and untrue) and now I cannot find any solid footing on the fragile framework of our flirtation.
I cannot deny the hope swelling in my chest, even if I do try to ignore it.
“She kissed, as if she, ALONE, were forging the signature of the sun.
If I were in front of you right now I would want some solstice to sign.”
I never know if I’ve given away too much of myself, or not enough, but either way I can always feel the sting of having lost *something*. I recoil from the things I’ve said and anticipate a cold shoulder, at least that would be reliable.
This has all been built on something terribly unsteady (and untrue) and now I cannot find any solid footing on the fragile framework of our flirtation.
I cannot deny the hope swelling in my chest, even if I do try to ignore it.