Tapioca

She stares into her tapioca pudding that was long ago placed upon the Sunday table.  It's beginning it's own unique process of solidification, much like all the other things in her life. She's reminded of how difficult things are going to be to walk through if she waits for him anymore. It seems as though everything is a spin off of him. Everything is a prelude that fashions itself toward him in a pull. Each amount of restlessness that she feels and is able to express resonates through him, while no part of him resonates through her. It's only the echoes that stick to the malleable that make it seem worth the time. She had always kept in in her mind to decide that when her current relationship was ready to take off (In accordance to his wishes) then she would devote her life and soul to it. What she didn't understand is that such decisions can't be brought out so far in advance. She also fails to understand that love that develops blood from beneath words can never fail to outdo the plumage of love that develops its blood from the forgery of a physical body of vice. 

The physical as well as the sexual beings understand less than anyone. When they are presented, they do nothing but feed. When they are faced with sensitivity and emotion, they are blinded and then they hate the difficulty of which it is. When they are confronted with emotion-oriented beings, they very easily mock the lack of realism within the mindset of such people. For them it is not fathomable that anyone would follow fleeting pros and cons as much as an emotional being. They would much rather think along the lines of amiable logic, dismissible countenance,  discussable pretense. They are given gifts of pure sentience from the pit of another's stomach, and they do not return it, because it is not as they please. They do not wish to mull over and over a common emotion, because it is only there for so long. Unlike the material. Nice things, nice company.  Light-hearted matters are of utmost importance, because none of this type wants to outwardly and shamelessly drown. They do not care to show their weaknesses, they do not enable to occupation of emotional thought for very long, and it is never shared when it comes to pass.  If there were such a thing as strength within emotion, the world would be different and easily observed as such. But it is not. Everything to them is set within gradient stone. A texture seen so boldly that nothing silly and preposterous can encompass it.