Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs
I am seeing used condoms in the park and writing poems. Not poems about used condoms, but somehow the two events seem related.
I'm finding romance again in the strangest form. I'm having a love affair with the most fickle boy in the universe, the camera. It happened once before when "poetry" meant "words", but now it means "images". Funny that it never meant "beautiful", but I think maybe it might be. Or maybe I'm just going crazy from the thought that I feel secure and grounded in my intentions and utterly independent.
It's funny how fears deliquesce so quickly when you're in love.
And how pretty you feel when you don't care anymore.
I'm finding romance again in the strangest form. I'm having a love affair with the most fickle boy in the universe, the camera. It happened once before when "poetry" meant "words", but now it means "images". Funny that it never meant "beautiful", but I think maybe it might be. Or maybe I'm just going crazy from the thought that I feel secure and grounded in my intentions and utterly independent.
It's funny how fears deliquesce so quickly when you're in love.
And how pretty you feel when you don't care anymore.