Realness

Everything is not as it is told. There is little left to sow, too little left to know.

I have one life, yet I have led many lives. You can spill your heart to a thousand paper pages of sorrows. But every page turned will still feel the same to your fingertips. Out of ordinary. Desperate for a design, for a purpose, for an inked marked skinned to my dried celled skin to tell me-
To just be.

All of the things once said and wanting of each other to be. The compass of my heart is out of tuned, for the needle no longer points north. I have no understanding of this. I have no grip of this vertical reality, spun and twisted in ways I no longer find familiarity...so I just be.

I wish I hadn't felt realness. I wish I hadn't seen it. Tasted it. Smelled it like the wafting scent of your cologne.

For there is nothing harder than pretending to be strangers with another- no greater lie ever forced to live - when you know you have lived one too many lives with someone.