lightsocketlove

Your taking my hand was a risk.

What change did you imagine?

Let's make story together. Later, a

story, if we make enough story itself,

on the way to the story.

That is the hard part,

my dear friend and lover:

we commit the sin of evaluation

and reevaluation on the subject

of safety, mostly during our aimless

internet-filled hours, clicking

and checking in on each minute.

There's where our anxiety

is, isn't it? But what if this

instead was the frightening part, as

I think it is - the risk

is in how good the story is,

whether the narrative's worth

the telling, of whether

it can tell itself,

whether the twists and turns

will drag us through deserts

or up crazily into the very hearts of thunderstorms,

or whether it will rain on our garden.

There's no safety in the icy clouds;

it's light-socket-love up there, for sure.

The risk is not whether or no there's no return,

but if you'll try to endure the weather

instead of hiding at home

when those thunderheads come.