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-Confucius had his Analects and I have my journal-
I am still compelled to think of you, but I think more of your influence. You crowbarred the fine lines in the armor of my heart and that jagged aperture is now smooth. It's as if you tongued the hormones I could never produce to make my heart a normal size. I never gave love a serious thought. I believed in its existence, but not in the experience. I was won, spun, and abandoned by you. For a while, I was dazed and fazed, but not grazed. I loved you for a season, but the desire you lent diffused into my heart, my blood, my brain, and thus me. My DNA's deviated, I am mutated, and am all the better for it. Now, I have these instructions - no, guidelines - better yet, an optimism that pervades all of me to find what you wanted in me, in someone else.

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