They did not understand me when I said the fog takes away the forest never from us towards a distant state of paleo-hearts. A state of not evolving. Ones with hearts that still clings to the images of gaping skies when you are innocent still, 8 years old, warm home, treehouses, your eyes wide of terrors of what this world has to offer.
You have people around you then and they negotiate the negatives that outlines the positives for you. Decisions were never options, then.
You said: I mutilated my limbic systems under the draping of willow branches as the memories of renaissance lovers falls along with my heart. Along with the falling leaves into the floor of the sun-lit forest.
I do not understand what is it of this idea of love since.
No, don't curl your fingers when you talk to me. They remind me of ferns growing wild.
I said: Of course. Ever since it ended, everything of you are slow in recognition and I grew into everything you hated.
I remember something about a place or an imagery of somewhere where we laid bones like our ancestors did into dirtholes and built ourselves graves for the cages of our wild hearts.
Your body is not a temple. Temples can be destroyed and desecrated. Your body is a forest—thick canopies of maple trees and sweet scented wildflowers sprouting in the underwood. You will grow back, over and over, no matter how badly you are devastated.
