I draw my worship out with a week of welts. I ascend to the lonely balcony of my personal shrine, with weeping wounds of what-if's laid upon me.
Armor-plated eyes watch my little frog lover hop happily around her little frog garden. So gorgeous, and so very far away.
Separated by a small infinity. And a swamp of sorrow. She weeps as she fights the wanton desire of slipping away into the water.
As it had always been; come to carry me across.
Knowing now that I can not come to her, any longer.
Even though I can swim.
But our arrangement is an exchange of vulnerability. Not an intrusion.
Unspoken and honored with the integrity of worries, silence and understanding.
10:05 p.m. - 2015-03-17
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