Η γυμνή αλήθεια.

A sense of aimlessness was overtaking her, as if the day had deflated like a balloon empty of air. That’s when she climbed the willow tree, halfway up, hidden by the weeping branches in full leaf, waiting.And you want to describe this feeling, these emotions. You’re not a writer, but you feel as if you could write an entire novel. You’re not a singer, but you feel like you could sing and sing until your lungs give out. You’re not a poet; rhyming and metaphor is no good but that undeniable urge to get it out is there, lingering beneath your edges and shining out past your lips and the corners of your eyes. Suddenly, you’re an expert at feeling. There may not be enough words. Or maybe there are. But they’re large, clumsy, foreign things on your tongue like foods from other countries or music you’ve never heard before but everyone seems to know the tune and the lyrics. Everyone except for you. But you’ll hum along anyway, like you know what you’re doing. You’re an expert, aren’t you? At feeling. I understand feeling as small and as insignificant as humanly possible. And how it can actually ache in places you didn’t know you had inside you. And it doesn’t matter how many new haircuts you get, or gyms you join… you still go to bed every night going over every detail and wonder what you did wrong or how you could have misunderstood. And how in the hell for that brief moment you could think that you were that happy. And sometimes you can even convince yourself that he’ll see the light and show up at your door. And after all that, however long all that may be, you’ll go somewhere new. And you’ll meet people who make you feel worthwhile again. And little pieces of your soul will finally come back. And all that fuzzy stuff, those years of your life that you wasted, that will eventually begin to fade.I take your hand in my hand and marvel at the lines etched into your skin like whispers shared between two lovers. I take your hand in my hand and feel this sense of longing because I want to know more of you besides the pressing of your rough skin into my halcyon flesh. I take your hand in my hand and raise it to my mouth. There. Feel the warmth of my breath blow past your flesh. Goosebumps rise on a silken landscape. I take your hand in my hand and wish that this were enough for you, but you are already fading. A smile in my direction, for my benefit, that gentle curve of bitten flesh lifting into the smallest of grins. But your eyes are glancing, skipping, dancing away. I take your hand in my hand and squeeze with all my might but you are gone, gone, gone and I have to accept that my touch can’t bring you back. It’s not enough. I take your hand in my hand. When will it be enough? This is a man's sight on women's true. You are the first and the last need in our lifes. We want to do with you what spring does with trees. I learn more of you every moment of my day. The correct expression to describe you in my eyes: We are reborned by you...We both know I need to fall out of love with you. Would be great if you would not let me try.