A Million Little Pieces.

I think about her. I think about the first time I saw her. I was eighteen and at School and I was sitting by myself under the orange and yellow of a fading October tree. I had a book in my hand and I was reading and for some reason I looked up. She was walking alone across the lawn of the School with an armful of papers. She tripped and the papers fell to the ground and as she bent over to get them she looked around to see if anyone had noticed. She didn't see me, but as she scrambled to pick up her papers, I saw her.
She didn't see me, but I saw her.

& So It Is.

I went to Barnes & Noble with Nathalie a few days back

and picked up a book that I've been meaning to read called

A Million Little Pieces by James Fray.

Yet another novel to add to my collection about

dysfunctionality and the depravity of life.

I can't wait to begin reading it!

That is, once I complete On The Road (Kerouac) for the 2nd time.

Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose,

or topaz,or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straight-forwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way than this.
Pablo Neruda