Loves me, loves me not

Is it my imagination,
this new bond
a thread that appeared
as we met?

Is it an unfolding,
new chapter in the tale
or utterly
wishful thinking,
dressing up a daydream?

I can ponder if it’s likely
for a tie to be one-way
but even if those reveries were true
the key isn’t in my hands.
Will we meet again?

loves me, loves me not cut


People in our life give us what’s available to them in the moment, never more and never less. Considering reasons for that sparks imagination, for imagination’s sake, remaining weightless.

No creature dresses in sameness and consistency. Likewise, no one can present what’s not with them.

And that is okay.


The year I barked at the Moon

It sneaked up in gentle fashion, resembling a change of seasons. From belonging to the winds, roaring along, to the place of stillness so decided, that feeling stuck became a life.

There was no joy in previous joys and no rhythm in the ticking of a clock. Hideaways were there no longer. Resistance lurked in striving not to resist and, burdened with contemplation, I fell ill. Once deep in the ground and tied to the limit, I stumbled across crumbs of relief.

Softly as it came, many moons behind time, a fading of the fog revealed that the cycle was complete. And I found that nothing was wrong with the world.

It was my own skin I had outgrown.

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What does anyone see, when they look at me?

Thoughts and words make up and split entire worlds; conversing happens through the meeting of a person’s language and perception. As we cut, tape and shape scattered episodes into oceans of stories, mere skill separates literature from everyday life.

And the existence of aliens, fairies, secret passages, hidden forces and parallel dimensions?

None of it is fictional, and everything is fiction.

At the end of the day, it’s all in the personal view.

*Written as a response to daily prompt:

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