promises are too much and after everything – leave me with a sense of unease. everything promised in the future rings true as lie unless we’re all psychics and flawless in our predictions – but love is the exception.
nothing overt, nothing subtle. no. just nothing at all. a common denominator of sharing truth. it returns silence. this isn’t complaint – just observation. there’s no mystery in the relationship between a cage and a wing – none at all until attempting to co-exist as if midnight and morning are extinct to day. what of all the hours in between? how can we not be impatient with the ground when it seems to exist solely to taunt the sky?