Webbed Hearts and Cheap Shoes

There's many things complicating my situation, of course as everyone expects, being trapped between a sword and the wall feels heavy, but I feel heavier since I know my implications.

In the most dumb of fashions I feel the urgency of going out and moving out of my small and hot box, to leave and embrace the hotter and smaller world of the outside yet not alone, I know who awaits for me as my end goal but that's far and lost away to time and to expectancy. So then my hearted chest pumps the thick concoction of blood and bile and hope, in calling back to the number I've forbidden to contact. 

I know the air is still since I hung up the last time, and the tears have not dried up yet in the eye of the beholder, whose expectations are of me, calling, appearing, addressing, undressing from the heavy armor and insimplify oneself to the heart of others, whose purpose is to pump that light and fribble elixir of life in blood and wine. 

Call me as you may, I call me many things. But still I figured in the cold of a broken bed while my head faded away in exhaust and half-man-made dreams, to caress the hair and hug the back once more, to feel the pressure in my chest and hear the breath in and out. To be alive once more without anything but compassion and peace, I don't know if it's love, it most definitely isn't. Cortázar taught me well, my Maga is far and alone, left to become who she has to be while I am what I am.

In while we trust eachother to tell my soul and bones spilled, here spelled as this hex of bad-o-loving. I must confess as my final draw, I don't know what this feeling is but it calls me back to the pitch black plaza of tears. I'll be going but don't cry I pray, or else I won't be able to help myself.