The winter speaks to the deeper gullies of me. The parts of my heart that have ridges and have born splinters. As much as it beats, it listens for love to echo back. Constantly. Calling out and listening back, against the rain on the windows it sits. Will you go wtih me? Is it so wrong to want to love strong and deep, to reach and stretch as far as you can go? To sit with another in a place no one else has gone? How do you quiet the heart?
I sit in the armchair, I watch the arms on the clock move forward, night falls. The rain on the windows, the wood on the fire. The love growing inside of me, one I cannot stop. I can feel myself out there somewhere at the peripheries of things. There is a place where this love can be absorbed.
Please do not ask me to put this away on a bookshelf, to be covered in dust, or a drawer amongst junk. It will only gather scratches and scraps from being smuggled.
I don't want to stop it. I cannot. But I ask will you join me.
Covered in the fleece blanket. Is love alive?
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