This is about love.

Sometimes there’s a burning flame inside me, an anxiety–a harboring curiosity that says go do it.

Sometimes there’s nothing.

It bothers me that every word you say is true–or could be so in my head. It amazes me, that I still remember every word you said.

What else but God can make sense of senses once dead?

I felt I could die I said. This is dangerously close now, to the day something switched and my heart changed, and then life decided–Instead.

What’s not good for you is often not good for you/what’s good for you is often not right for you, and what’s perfect for you, is not the curious bells and whistles in your head, but the fond love of someone who cares deeply about it all.

Still I think of the message and wonder what happened?

My life flashing before me, and you so beautiful in it. Should I have been something else instead? Is life a battle for the thinkers and a breeze for the quitters? This isn’t a rant–I hate that word. This is a poem. about Love. Because up until now the only kind I’ve known has been synonymous with.. Torture.

Quick cut to La Tortura. What happened to that light side of me? February. and years that gave me wisdom and sucked the life out of me. RIP Martyrs Square. Sensitivity. And I’ve changed much.

How are you doing?