1:24 p.m. - 2013-10-04
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We.
I don't even.
His place is like a mad wonderland dream.
It is driftwood and iron, plants and stained glass and mirrors and whimsy.
It gathers disparate beauties and combines them in startling ways.
It will take time for my conscious mind to accept the dream-logic-flow of the buildings, but already my dreaming self embraces it.
He smiles, and I melt.
And I grieve.
How can I give him what he needs?
I cannot even love myself.
