**Breathe, one, two, three, wait before jumping over the edge.**
Mine is a cursed heart and was the moment I told the tall, lanky man that I wanted to kiss him. Who knew he’d kiss me back, or that kiss would send me spiraling out of control? Since that moment, I took to writing love letters. I write letters of love, of anger, or loss, of ache, or pain, and from almost the same instance, we started our love affair, I wrote ‘love me no more’ letters, and please ‘ release me letters’. I beg him to be strong and not contact me—since I am the weaker one—but apparently he is weaker than I since he has never truly let me get too far away or go too long without pulling me back in. He goes silent for a while, which hurts at first but I gradually resume normal breathing until he pops up in my instant message window, and we tango, spare, and begin again.
Some people blog to tell a story, to confess, to become famous, and then there are those of us who come out of the closet with their heartache with the wild notion of self-curing. I don’t know if that will happen here or not, but there isn’t anything to be lost.
Over the edge, and damn the rules….
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To the left of me is solid and lanky dead asleep. To my right in the corner under the watercolor is my computer. Inside of me is my muse pushing me out of my bed away from a solid known quantity to the right hand corner of my room where the blank white word document and blinking curser are waiting impatiently. She woke me from a peaceful and physically sated deep sleep, solid and lanky is responsible for this. My nasty muse saw a woman today in red boots, they were not the sexy sort with pointy toes, high heels, nor were they sporting the words Tony Lama. 
I have a weakness for all three. 
If only….
