I realized today
not that I hadn't already known it for a while
I could never love a writer.
I could never love another writer,
another frenzied mind and obsessive fanatic of words.
words.
In the end that's all they are, aren't they. They're not real. not toucheable. Not felt. They're good intentions, maybe. They're heartfelt, sometimes.
But they're not real. Not actually.
I think I...need..someone to show me something real.
Allow me to feel something, see something, hear something.
Not another text, another screen, another scripted promise.
Something big. And undeniable.
"Yes, dear, I see your words. They are lovely, just like you.
But whatever will I do with.. more words?"
No comments:
Post a Comment