(no subject)
i was a fool to believe in anyone.
edit: or myself. but survival mode says i have to. so that's what im going to do. try to hang on.
it's so hard to make it; for every inch we get we need a mile more.
but there is always so much distance, can't but feel it somehow, & you have never ever felt it like you feel it right now. I'm closing off inside and it is only just starting but you can't be close enough unless I'm feeling your heart beat.
"He tells her its like a poem; the thinner its form the sharper it becomes." She rolls her eyes and lazily flips the eggs. He continues, describes the refinement of ore the process of reduction and the hot hours of grinding as it emerges from the sparks - goes on about the differences between it and a block of steel (a "paper-weight" he calls it). He says to her "As you take away more, as it becomes less, it becomes even more significant." To prove the point, he picks it up from the table and plunges it deeply into his chest. She turns to look at what hes done, the stoves quiet hiss drowning out her sigh. They both stand there for a minute watching the handle's small jumps with each beat. "Thats not a poem," she says as she places the eggs on the table, "a poem would have missed your heart."
edit: or myself. but survival mode says i have to. so that's what im going to do. try to hang on.
it's so hard to make it; for every inch we get we need a mile more.
but there is always so much distance, can't but feel it somehow, & you have never ever felt it like you feel it right now. I'm closing off inside and it is only just starting but you can't be close enough unless I'm feeling your heart beat.
"He tells her its like a poem; the thinner its form the sharper it becomes." She rolls her eyes and lazily flips the eggs. He continues, describes the refinement of ore the process of reduction and the hot hours of grinding as it emerges from the sparks - goes on about the differences between it and a block of steel (a "paper-weight" he calls it). He says to her "As you take away more, as it becomes less, it becomes even more significant." To prove the point, he picks it up from the table and plunges it deeply into his chest. She turns to look at what hes done, the stoves quiet hiss drowning out her sigh. They both stand there for a minute watching the handle's small jumps with each beat. "Thats not a poem," she says as she places the eggs on the table, "a poem would have missed your heart."