I am afraid that the standoffish type is the only kind I love.

Sharing poems & thoughts, one redacted word at a time.

I am afraid that the standoffish type is the only kind I love.

In the silence a heart beat heavily, brooding was her best state.

You aren't here. You're a dream evaporated. A hurt winding in the ruins of me.

Under that icy veneer of jealousy was an apparent expression of love.

She was a lonely bird full of unchanging melancholy. She felt a terrible appeal to detach from everything.

To be so wrapped up in self, is dangerous: self pity and sense of woe betray you.

Barren and weary of money - a death Americanized. How weary the world was.

You make me happy enough, somehow.

You are a stranger living by yourself; no one to love.

I grew irritable and restless, confined to narrow loneliness: sullen and silent in a sleep eternally.
