Clair de lune et ma chambre

I hate it that sometimes people can't get eachother because they refuse to. Everything's preliminary: preliminary judgemental issues, preliminary purposes, preliminary facts. It's like a huge crime scene. All set up from before. I want to tell the world that I know I'm in love, to shout it out loud and pay it forward. Everybody should love and be loved in return. But the world's unfair and we-even I-know it. I want to let you people know that I suffer, I think of myself as creative. I work, I eat and I poop and everything's told and nothing's hidden. I sometimes want to unravel all I possibly can and let it all out and make myself known. Like being metaphorically naked. This guy I love, there's nothing profane about it. My words, unfortunately, sometimes are. I think of my love as something stark but purely coincidental. I did not search for it nor did I know how would it hit me or mesmerize me. I always played with pencils, shapes and forms. He made them glance and powerful. He doesn't know that. Therefore I plan on keeping this love I have alive and willing. I want him to see me as I am, as he does, as I want to become, as I hide among art magazines and favourite books. I want this love to know eachother's beds as we know them. I want to know his sleep. I want to be romantic and frank. I want to tell him all I possibly know through a look, through a short amount of time, a spark. I want the two of us not to be afraid of what's next, to just keep things simple.

Grown up or imature, read or not known, alone or together, alive or not, get some butterflies for your heart aches.