Tender.

Shall I begin?

"...My heart is a barren wasteland
Where things go to die... "

(7th March... A day of drama clearly... )

I pick up where I left off, almost...Almost a month later. My feelings...evolved?
Perhaps more set than ever. All the more terrifyingly certain.
I feel myself growing comfortable with it. This endless alone.
Those moments where it pricks at my eyes. It scrapes against my tenderness.
I like the way I hurt.
Hurt has worth. Hurt is safe. Just like old times.

"...My skin itches, my belly aches and grumbles.
I lie in bed too long. As though restrained.
I wait. Wait for the wonder to pass from me.
Staring out of the window. Passing clouds.
Turning a longing for air, Into...
Fear?...Hopelessness...Resignation?
Too late in the afternoon to leave.
To live."

A month ago. More than that...
Here I am sat in Foyles old Jazz café...
Having wondered (yes...wondered...) my way half way across the city.
In dreams. Dreams without sleep.
The best of dreams. I breathe real air. And my lungs...
Fill with love for all this existence. All this.
As though I had woken up somehow
from wherever it was I had been lost.