The language of love

Seared into my gaze, yet fading
Wrought into my step, shaking it off
Searching for the comfort that's unending
Accumulating confidence previously cast off

How could you have seen me
But been so wound up in fears
Unable to reach out, you were
Though I gathered you near

Reinvesting in the notion of affection
Somehow I've done so long without
Friendly ministrations recall past soothings
An antithesis to sweet nothings

I'll crave warmth from the people around me
I'm allowed to grow through endearments
Given and received, an atmosphere of generosity
Looking forward to the love generating velocity

Living through something disruptive

For a week now I've been mainly going outside after the hours of 8pm. Even so, this Saturday night, I chose to skip a sojourn around my suburb. I needed the avoidance of stressful touching of door handles, lift buttons and other such surfaces. I'm sure I'll resume tomorrow.

So far, as far as I know, I don't have the coronavirus, but a part of me expects to contract it despite the precautions I'm taking.

I dived deep into a heady tale yesterday, the vividly drawn Eastern European setting disturbing me. I hope I sleep better this morning. For morning is a better descriptor than night.

Dua Lipa plays on Channel V and it's slightly disconcerting, possibly too heteronormative.

I maintain my innocence, and my immersion in the world of post-traumatic growth.

A book by Sophie Hardcastle. Article in The Guardian. A downloaded chapter. An exquisite fear of another woman's hellscape. A decision to disengage.

The offensive doctor brought something to my attention (before I left his office forever). I wanted to bring my whole self along to the next man's office. Let him be discomforted. Let me bring all of my tricky, hard-won knowledge. Let the full canopy of my well-tended psyche wrench his certainty far from where he'd hoped.