another wednesday

in a room which is not mine, yet contains me;
from the window across the bed there is not much to see-
all to be seen is inside again. folding and unfolding endlessly. soon things start shaping up; start making sense. whether we like it or not, it's there. and love has become too big a notion for us to perceive, an emotion for us to feel.
petty little thieves of people's carefully and tenderly constructed worlds. we have become..
tired and disgusted of ourselves, we let everyone else steal us; perhaps that's the way to feel love; share your beautiful inner ambience, hoping to find someone who wants to dwell in it, stay with you even for a while, as you wind through the labyrinths of your soul..you'll have him over for a tea in your garden..he'll drink it..the dusk will catch you unguarded. "wanna come inside?" you'll ask. you will be waiting for the answer that will not leave you alone one more time. "yes"
will he love me? does he want to see the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom, every small space and corner of my world? or does he just wanna scratch the surface?
suspicious or not, you know better than leaving "chances" go lost..
maybe this will get the ball rolling, you think..
the story is old and it has tired you; your skin is full of thousands of little scratches..that started as strokes..you didn't know. you wish for a big scar to be engraved on your soft, willing flesh. hurtful as it might be, you wanna feel it.
craving for joys.