it's quiet. at last. nothing but the swish of the tree outside my window. and the crickets wishing each other good night a thousand times. because saying it once may not make it good enough.
i'm alone for the first time in seven days, after going over every deadly sin. thursday for sloth, friday for envy, saturday for pride, sunday for greed, monday for gluttony, tuesday for wrath and wednesday for lust. seven days of going from wanting to kill the self to feeding the soul. the trees and the water and the rocks and the sun tried to feed the hunger in my soul, while the smiles and the hugs and the laughter were slowly poisoning my blood.
strange observation that love is not one of the seven sins. suffice to say i would've been held guilty many times over, if it was. unrequited, unfulfilled, unnecessary love. i would need more than seven days of seven years to fall out of love. but it took me less than seven minutes to fall in love with you.
i am alone, at last. i have the night stretched out in front of me, in all its glorious, sexy self. waiting for me to stroke it and kiss it and thrust it to satisfaction. and whisper sweet nothings in its ear, so softly that even the stars will not overhear. because the bastard stars hear everything i say and remember everything i do.
and as i melt into the darkness, there is only thing i want, and only one thing i am grateful for:
i am alone, at least.
i'm alone for the first time in seven days, after going over every deadly sin. thursday for sloth, friday for envy, saturday for pride, sunday for greed, monday for gluttony, tuesday for wrath and wednesday for lust. seven days of going from wanting to kill the self to feeding the soul. the trees and the water and the rocks and the sun tried to feed the hunger in my soul, while the smiles and the hugs and the laughter were slowly poisoning my blood.
strange observation that love is not one of the seven sins. suffice to say i would've been held guilty many times over, if it was. unrequited, unfulfilled, unnecessary love. i would need more than seven days of seven years to fall out of love. but it took me less than seven minutes to fall in love with you.
i am alone, at last. i have the night stretched out in front of me, in all its glorious, sexy self. waiting for me to stroke it and kiss it and thrust it to satisfaction. and whisper sweet nothings in its ear, so softly that even the stars will not overhear. because the bastard stars hear everything i say and remember everything i do.
and as i melt into the darkness, there is only thing i want, and only one thing i am grateful for:
i am alone, at least.