.new eyes.

I'm giving up on love and giving in. Reality really doesn't work like you think.

"Anyone Know Any Good Ghost Stories?"

We've forgotten how to tell

ghost stories,instead

we relay accounts

scared half-truths --wary

of innacuracy and blame.

We shirk claims on our

Stories, All stories.

Disconnected from our

connected tongues

we've lost the art

the rise and the fall

of plot and tears

in statistical fears.

Our ghost stories spectate

each horror news hour

a panorama of word stealers

spitting propaganda

to a crackling camp fire.

Ugh.

Oh your pretty words tangled my pretty sense
the propriety I lonely crafted sure
Lost to your touch impure,impure

Touch of love and soul
soon retracted, no, left to linger

Strung out to wither I run
not then from your arms,
But into nature's light
Away from night's temptation

Surely we'd damage one another
so closely entwined; out of time
Our amourous speech and touch

Surely each destroyed as we Collide

Read after writing the above:

love note

I: Surely

Surely you stay my certain own, you stay

My you. All honest, lofty as a cloud.

Surely I could come now and find you high,

As mine as you ever were; should not be awed.

Surely your word would pop as insolent

As always: "Why, of course I love you, dear."

Your gaze, surely, ungauzed as I could want.

Your touches, that never were careful, what they were.

Surely--But I am very off from that.

From surely. From indeed. From the decent arrow

That was my clean naivete and my faith.

This morning men deliver wounds and death.

They will deliver death and wounds tomorrow.

And I doubt all. You. Or a violet.

- Gwendolyn Brooks

...aaand exacerbating the mood....too much E.B. B on this Spring day.

Sonnet 14.

If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say 'I love her for her smile—her look—her way Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'— For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,— A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

- Elizabeth Barrett Browning