Now I’m afraid of when to say what, feel like every thought should be weighed on a scale, resistant to share them with the real world, and especially with those I have feelings for. I keep hope in a bottle, stowed away in a case, drink its foreign liquid, and rely on its promise to keep me level-headed, resistant to squander, sabotage, inflame.

I walk along shaky, fragile ground, as I strive to believe someone will get me, I mean, isn’t that what I write all about? The yearning for understanding my depths, a hoped-for intrigue, curiosity by the one whose heart is in my own; just as I am a perpetual seeker of who they really are.

I guess time will tell, as I write these words, seek understanding in my own way, and if someone stays, let them stay, as we search souls through eye gazes and touch enduring, speak words as they flow, unafraid of the prospect that they could mean ‘leaving’. Just stay, let’s push past the walls and the pain, disregarding the norms of society; rejecting the trend to hide and flee, sustaining the soul that brings two together.

Emily Cloward © 2018