What happens when drugs meet me.

it's always hard to look at someone in the eye and hear that we're not they want - even when we feel that they were put into our lives for the divine purpose of love. knowing that no matter what we do or say, nothing can change who they are and what they want - it makes us powerless and insignificant. it's hard to think of them living their lives free of us; joyous, purposeful and beautiful while we're left holding on to the hurt that comes with the letting go of something that feels like an organ made for our sole intention. we are in agony and feel complete rejection... but perhaps this is the true understanding: our ingrained feelings are not the only emotions in play; the person we love isn't rejecting us - they are simply accepting themselves.

Do the Beyonce. Arnaldo James Photography, 2011

"somalia, bosnia, cuba, colombia, ecuador, mexico, butanne, morocco, botswana, ghana, india, serbia, syria, lebanon, zambia, namibia, bali, mali, chile, malawi, bequia, st. vincent, trinidad and norway, china, canada, USA and UK, nepal, nigeria, ethiopia, north k, myanmar, panama, philippines, nicaragua, palestine and greece, peru and france; it's so simple, do the dance."

a very random thought i had: i will actually never have the feeling of having sex with the woman who is pregnant with my child. if you think really deeply about this, it's a little sad.

i'm not particularly attracted to pregnant women in any way - sexual or general interest-wise - but imagine being in love with a person, deciding you want to have a baby together and then make love to that person knowing that inside, they are carrying the fruits of your immeasurable love. that's some hot emotional sex.

and hot emotional sex is the best sex. you know it.

But my heart, it won't.

Now I feel it, now you don't.
Like a grave of forgetfulness,
Leave it behind, I won't:

Can I be transparent,
Or is it all through haze?
My love is apparent,
My heart beats your phrase.

Electric transfer, darkest nights,
Awake, in sleep; I am always haunted,
Farthest reaches of my weak plight,
Wash away your stain, may this be granted.

A burnt root, blackest ash and coal,
With uprooted insides, scattered afar;
Thus, my heavy, sacrilege soul
Is interred in the numbest war.

This isn't pain, that wouldn't be justice,
It wrings and pulls and kicks and wounds.
Your face and body and voice insists
On seeing me through 'til all hope is pruned.

Bare, leafless, adjacent to fact,
At war with what?
It is you I lack.

Now I need you, now you don't.
My mind will forget you
But my heart, it won't.

I will get over you.

It's happening again,
And I am your stead.
This isn't love, it's a stain
That's spreading through my head.

The feelings persist, your smile persists,
And my emotions rear their ugly head,
My heart loses connection (if a romanticised heart exists),
And once again, I am your stead.

Not only miles apart,
But we are worlds apart.
Do I want you?
What is missing?

You are not mine, just like the Reader said.
You will never be mine, all "love" is dead.
You are not mine, so go ahead;
I will get over you.