I often wish that I could take out the part of me that holds affection for others, not remove it, but present it in tangible presence to the target. I suppose that I worry my emotional inners are translucent and appear to the outer as little more than lace dressing on a dilapidated facade. I would cup my love gently in two hands proffered and couple the offering with supplicant intent lowered over my features. This, I would say, is the weight of your worth to me, misshapen maybe but undeniably real. Take it, it grows only for you.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.