For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley,
The Cloud, 1820
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Like Strangers
It feels like you've gone from being my boyfriend to being a stranger. I used to know all these little details about your day and your life and now I don't know anything at all. I can't just turn to you with the hundred small things I want to tell you each day, and it feels like I have no right to expect you to contact me.
A little space right now is maybe a good thing so we can both clear our heads. Or maybe not. I have nfi.
I just don't like feeling like we're strangers.
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