I have a poem on my tongue or possibly my fingertips. It’s about a chair. It’s coming….bear with me. 

Imagination so vivid that I can hear the wood creaking under the tension. Small threads break loose like tiny explosions free from restraint. 

He sits, he is bound there. Like still life, beautifully silent, beautifully trusting. His heartbeat the only true acknowledgement to his uncertainty. 

This is not about control, no upper hand involved. This is a breakdown of barriers of walls built to protect. What came before has no place here. 

He’s so beautiful in this light, the soft flicker so defining, so accurate. There’s such nervousness in my fingertips. A blissful realisation of a moment so perfect. 

There’s no struggle as my fingers gently trace his lips. His eyes dilated and hungry now. He is bound here, he is mesmerised. 

With the softest of words he moves uncontrollably. I’m almost lost in this hypnotic thrill. One kiss and I am tethered one kiss and I am bound here. 

Trying to be someone else is hard. Trying to be someone else for someone else is impossible. 

In the words of FOB “our guts can’t be reworked” 

We can change the outside, but what’s inside remains. Holding back isn’t changing, it’s just the abridged version of ourselves. 

We’re all set by default. Even in saying what we mean do we rarely say exactly what we mean. 

Tact is important, but it’s just face value. Scratch the surface of that thin veneer and you’ll see a closer example of reality. 

Why do we hide or fears, our feelings? What’s so awful about honesty? Making an impression seems to be too important, and being  ourselves is just put aside. 

Exhausted. Fucked. Knackered. Drained. All the tired words. Yet still full of energy. How’s that work? Is it body or mind? Or both?  

I’m not sure I’ve got the hang of this blog business. I’m pretty sure the idea is “oh look I’ve written something that you must read” Whereas  I’m just spilling my thoughts etc. 
Have a heart