we compose our life in stories we tell ourselves
...there is no map of the soul because we make it up as we go...
I am a bed of sparks you breathe upon and kindle
after life has broken you open, perhaps you may create art
...I retreat into my fictional world where everything makes sense - but even there I can't even control what people do...
our hearts break, and take us out of relationships that are too painful for us
when I see you, I see mystery - a pale moon's beauty behind a veil of cloud
yes, writing is mostly a dream, but angels visit in dreams
Your window square a yellow kite, and the Moon a white balloon