Hodded, Fountain Heart

It's amazing, how far I was able to stray from myself. And how exciting it is, the journey back. These thoughts that have been so absent -- how I love my life, how I love this woman with all of her failings and awkwardness and grade school humor -- how sad that for so long she should sit sequestered so far  from all of this. The nightmares, I think, are my body's way to draw out the poison and it's safest in sleep, to be so fragile. She was dead in the last one, a ghost, and she could fly and it was so powerful to turn every corner with that face so graven and gone, angry, and his fear from the knowing that there was no escape. "You have killed me," whisper upon a certain wavelength, it was only he and I, faces passing on the street blurred but vibrant so stark a contrast to that gone grey grave apparition. And I knew her, I knew who she was. I knew that life. I loved her so! And I will weep upon the earth where she rests, but they are my most sincere tears of joy. Ah that she lived through that and brought me to this! Yes, the poison must be drawn out. She has my heart with her, locked in a cage, and all of the joy and love and understanding is kittied up with it. She struggles for me because she knows. (No matter how dark down the deep goes, that beating heart never is lost.)