In a way, her strangeness, her naiveté, her craving for the other half of her equation was the consequence of an idle imagination. Had she paints, or clay, or knew the discipline of the dance, or strings, had she anything to engage her tremendous curiosity and her gift for metaphor, she might have exchanged the restlessness and preoccupation with whim for an activity that provided her with all she yearned for. And like an artist with no art form, she became dangerous.
someone can be madly in love with you and still not be ready. they can love you in a way you have never been loved and still not join you on the bridge. and whatever their reasons you must leave. because you never ever have to inspire anyone to meet you on the bridge. you never ever have to convince someone to do the work to be ready. there is more extraordinary love, more love that you have never seen, out here in this wide and wild universe. and there is the love that will be ready.
Sleep with me. I couldn’t care less if you were wearing five layers of clothes, or nothing at all. You belong in my bed. You deserve to feel the comfort of what I call ‘paradise’.
Sleep with me. I’ll help you recreate the warmth that left your fingertips years ago. I want to hear you breathe easily, as the sound drowns out every single worry on my weary mind.
Sleep with me. I don’t mean to create such a sense urgency, but you deserve to feel safe, and I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen.