there's this store across the street from the universite de philo in paris, in the 6iem, around the corner from saint germaine, where they sell the most incredible medical skeleton models- perfect models, perfect proportions of our skeletal system.

I've always dreamed and fantasized about buying a skull

I've always been a secret goth too.

I have been home for one month, one long arduous death defying month

when I close my eyes i grasp for memories of the street corner on rue des ecoles, my last visit to the left bank 

my sense of smell has been weakened by the everlasting rain, the tumult of my senses being defeated by weather and my eyes being blinded by the overcast sky

i have chosen to live so briefly in this place yet i am overcome by emotion every time i think of returning to a city that bowed down and kissed both my cheeks soundly

i am haunted by cafes, of kiwi fraisiers, of vanilla bourbon millefeuilles, of immaculate dressing and art that moves me to a higher sense.

i've forgotten how to live and yet have continued the way i did before, like a year never happened.

WOE.

i need sensibility back.

i’d have no concept of love if it wasnt for books, nothing to compare it to, no emotion to understand, and no name to call the feeling.

I’ve spent year cultivating the everlasting flavour of love, and this is something which billions of novels have been written about- this is the subject which has always capitvated us.

However, Lust always precedes love and without that translucent, decadent and buttery image and general assault we usually make of love, lies the true feeling of love. That is, when we are talking about the sort of love that brings people of non blood relations together. we are not to judge upon circumstances however, especially when remembering the Goalers of Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia. Their love had precedent, the sort of oddly blood substance kind that creates novels which shock literary genre out of water and win these individuals prizes of all sorts. 

but yes, here we are again, talking about love as a feeling and not just as a word.  But as we say in greek- EROTA, meaning I am in love. and yes, it is certainly me in a first person sens

One of my talent's is applying eyeliner without a mirror

the other one is french braiding my own hair ( while being a hopeless waste at doing anyone else's)

I am also ambidextrous. 

I am like a mage, as striking as could be and the rain turns me to rust as the time flees

the end, mundanely and obviously enough is drawing near. Here I am flying back again to a time that spreads as vast as the land, without charming villages nor 3 am pastries.

I feel hectic and chaotic and like I cant catch my breath- I feel the same way without YOU sometimes when I remember what its like to be around. I am so conscious you are never in my dreams

All I really need is that tiny bit of encouragement and I will banter on for days. Sometimes I am quiet like a kitten, just a mew mew here and there.

A snippet of a long forgotten past:

All is not lost, not hopeless and definetly not OBSOLETE just close your eyes and think of smiles
when you run clear your mind and run faster than full speed always in life
I feel like a wise woman recomending herbs for abortions to you and is this making any sense?
I dont care to explain my thoughts nor my actions to anyone any longer. If you promised to join with me here in Paris, say, next summer I would not say no to the chance of running away, again.
Love yours truly.

 A way to describe me: 

you are a delicate flower with gold flecked petals and slender elegant stems.

I think the thing in which I most delight is when people use my name in conversation, in written in typed and in thought. 

they caw

and they crack, they cack

they are ethereal as they cavort,

as they swoop

their eyes like imitation hawks

pretending  like a childhood game

to no gain

as they feed solely on the flatgrass of the marsh

their stark white against the muddy green

and they are free 

unlike me 

starring from behind a thicker pane of glass

breaking on my white wrists

I long to be one of a kind

I hold 

I am held

I am the prisoner of Shalot

observing closely

what other's watch not.