Out there somewhere there is a love who will never dream of calling you too much. Who speaks, like you, in poetry and candlewax and stardust. Who runs outside on stormy nights to howl at the moon. Who collects bones and sings incantation and talks to the ancestors. And that lover, when you find him or her, will see you and know you – just as you are and just as you should be. And they will say yes. Yes, you. I will go there with you. I have been waiting for this.
We are the young and reckless hearts, destined to fly, and fall, and fly again.
The world doesn’t treat the wild souls well, because maybe it doesn’t quite understand. But in the end it remembers the super novas that burned so bright we blinded them all.
The clock of time is a wild child, one that can neither be controlled nor disciplined, it simply slips away from your hand while you grapple trying to hold it back.
Love encompasses two wild imaginations, dreaming of what a life together could be.
It takes a deep and abiding love for yourself to have the patience to wait for the companion who is mentally healthy enough to see the beauty in your heart. No filters required.
I looked at you and only saw beautiful because legendary is the ability of a woman’s mind to weave fields of roses from thorns.