mythoughtspill.com

I have a strange love for untied shoelaces, and old maps. Chipping paint and disasters begging to happen. Ponds believed to be oceans and gnarled, twisting trees that could tell tales a thousand years long.

I have a strange love for childhood scars and ink stained hands. bumps on noses, faces with ancestry and lines that sprout from the corners of old eyes, so filled with happiness that some had to spill over.

I have strange love for starts that stand still, forts that have seen more lifetimes than this earth has. Black holes, the deeper you venture the slower time moves. New planets, places so familiarly foreign and galaxies. Nations of light and life and all things real.