The Love?

Sometimes it feels like the Love I feel is too much, and it spills all the way across everything I know.

Pure, untamed […]  has been a concept I nudge gently for fear of finding out some awful secret in my guts; digging and clawing through a variety of meanders showed a clear favor of opposition. There was no awful secret in my guts, there was only misdirection.

When well known patterns meet a well known adversary, is it not magic?, I said, but only as a whisper because the undignified shape of a starved monster that’s been kicked around is just too sharp to bear.

Broken is a broken word unto itself, propelling its sad little entity. Broken is as broken does, a label so seemingly self evident it can send you for a loop with how intoxicatingly self fulfilling it becomes.

A sad imp, a joke, an entertaining excuse of a single minded deluge, tossed into a fire and convinced the fire will not scar.

Fire starves oxygen. Fire consumes oxygen. Fire will burn until the oxygen turns pale, and then try for more when oxygen gasps for breath. The fire only burns, it will have no concept of oxygen starvation. It cannot do anything but burn.