love is often encompassed by the notion, by the perceived idea; 
that to be in love
is to be embraced by perpetual [warmth and happiness].
you can never prepare for it. 
the madness that creeps in through veins and sits pooling behind eyes.
no one expects love to consume them like this.
but it does.
and there is beauty in this.
in the millions of tiny atoms
that come to life
and remind you
how quickly
you can become consumed by another.

you can never prepare for that sudden familiarity -
you know them
more deeply than you know anything else.
your entire being sparks to life, 
from millions on tiny atoms
cracking apart and making room
for ____.

finding that love is finding pieces of yourself.


blah blah blah rough writing






In the mountains we fall silent, letting the land speak. We listen to falling trees, we let avalanches call for our (mortality?) fatality, (we let avalanches make claim to our fate?), we break our necks looking up to divinity. There is nothing more to do but search for reasons why the earth loves us despite our failure to love it alike. 

But here we are; we’ve made it to the mountains.