If your propose would have been irrelevant you would have  yearned for slumber, but you - you’ve been set ablaze only to tell this world the story  of how gold is being made.

Being me, I don’t know what that means Stretching myself into the unknown Until it hurts to be seen. Resting my fears in your consciousness While finding you means loosing me. I wonder- if the space in my heart for what is right grows..

my take on how fear can shut us off from our own femininity in the context of what is currently going on in our world.

I wonder if love stories can outgrow themselves. That they missed so may right timings and failed all needs at the wrong moment. I am wondering if you could have been what I saw you being in other parts of yourself…

I guess they say it is writing that helps you to remember what you don’t want to want, makes you feel what you don’t want to deny, and respect what was yours, to begin with. This is a letter to the one that numbed and burned the most...