Developments Have Not Been Made
Some moments ago..
I wrote about a love I've longed for, beyond my own comprehension kinda love. And to no prevail have I found more wanting lately. Less writing and more wanting. Less living and more waiting or waining with the wind between my ribs. If I were a story teller I'd be able to purge this out of me. I'd be happier to have spilled the sour parts of me out somewhere that only I know the true location of. The bite of bitter everything swims just under the surface of my skin. It has the power to consume me since I gave it so much of my strength. At least I can see it. But now what?
