This body has changed since it has last been touched in the many versions of so called lovers
I find utterly revolting to be in the same physical form as one was in the latest recreation of unloving oneself in exchange of offering a restless affection to somebody’s eyes.
Why would one not reach out for change, that’s my thought, why would one not find the least detail of themselves to better or to question differently.
More I will judge that inquire after one has passed the gory unearthing encounter of choosing to attune your intentional interest to a person that vigorously confirms you are to be filled with love.
Whether that pinnacle of bliss has gone awry or has the unstoppable flow of life involved itself, how gut-wrenching lacking must you be to not desire change; to not want to assimilate that beautiful-never- -fundamental aphorism of what love once was understood as.
I am more than delighted that sometimes change comes to me without choosing it, as if the spiritual world on my surrounding becomes witness that impermanence has not been present as of late within me.
It comes a few times embracing oneself through the process, and most frequently it will force you out of the ways you paved: obliging you to pave within the mud, to release yet raw expression of you that has to blossom, non concerned it will take over and already flourishing garden.
That, again, love that is born in your inner world has flashed onto the universe that cycles back to nourish you, but oh my, sometimes those rays will make you blind towards your own desire for caring for thyself more than that warmth you’ve been exposed to for so long.
Quite regrettable, I’m no tree, no plant that will grow and stand tall against the thrusting winds, nor will I mature bark with every minuscule slain form those who have felt me and my shadow of resilient love.
For I am a moving entity, change is how I fit the love that once fed another world onto me. It is a reminder that I am a gallery responsible for renovating my collection of affection, that all that has been from me and felt within me, stays with me in it’s most benign existence: a stationary appreciation.
So perhaps I will hurl when looking back at who I weren’t to myself for all those times I lended my hand for the purpose to be held. And yet, I feel a satisfaction that, for the worse, change is the foretold that you will almost believe it never happened in the first the place.
How could it be, honestly? Past people have never felt parts of me that were within me in a backlog state form before. How can the hate, disdain, disappointment and distrust be real if a memory feels as distant as the intensity of those once called truest feelings?
For once, could we attain a smug stance that those who professed to be fond of our connection, will just be forgotten as the body renews itself, even in its most aggressive condition: a body in decline.
Because life is ever flowing and ever affecting, and you who once prayed for our intertwining lives, change is the death of who I once were in front of you. I no longer exist to you, I must have become one of those blurry faces that will only press the void of an emotion you once profusely desired.
This extended limb of mine is living with keepsakes that all I ever loved, I have loved entirely then, and for once, I have now a greenhouse keeping my garden in blossom. The hands can rest on the windowpanes, never touching again.
