Friday, August 17, 2007; 1:51 AM
fragility is a form of art
My heart stopped for a short, broken moment last night, when I sat in your bed and stifled a sob. I would've pushed you away, but you were too strong. Too strong! Too strong, or maybe I just didn't want to. Your words broke me, but your arms held me, but I loved and you let me love.

We gazed at clouds, and if yesterday I felt distant, today I felt closer and things couldn't be more perfect, even in the dark as we cried and hugged each other for want of the hurt caused by unintentional words. Oh words, just words, but what power do they carry? Words could have made me stay, words could have made you go. All I know is that the saltiness of your tears on my lips are more proof than any words could ever show.

You strum the rhythm of my heart like a fragile guitar, when thoughts pour out of my head like a messed up scramble of drizzling ink, filling up the corners and seeping its way through the crevices and crannies of my head; paranoia - but you still stay and your rough fingers hold me like I am a fragile piece of glass, tender. Encouraging the expression of those thoughts, greedily grabbing at them like a fisherman tending to his catch, something I would never thought possible. For who should care about such silly thoughts? Nothing tangible, nothing wholesome - just a whole bunch of faded flowers. I cry a lot more than I really should, a jigsaw puzzle of emotions that you could never piece together, but you try anyway and for that I try my best too, and that is what people refer to as compatibility.

Some call it poetry, some call it free-flowing, all these thoughts ebbing in and out of shore; a vast lake of poetry and words - words which hold such magnificent power.

You and me crying in the dark, hugging - it is a thing of beauty.