superfluous sincerity

My heart drowns in its own superfluous sincerity.


You are intertwined in the fabric of my soul. I don’t know how to pull out your thread without unraveling the entire tapestry. I’m scared to try. 

Fate is controlling the sewing machine now, and I can’t say I like the pattern it’s making. But I’m inept at sewing; my needle-punctured fingers serve as proof. Life has left me thimble-less. 

  • 1 July 2012
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