Sometimes I miss you
the way someone drowning
remembers the air.
Today I suddenly experienced an absurd but quiet valid sensation. I realized, in an intimate lightning flash, that I am no one. No one, absolutely no one.
Through talking, thinking is half murdered. For thought is a bird of space, for in it’s cage of words may indeed unfold it’s wings but cannot fly.
A healthy relationship is one where two independent people just make a deal that they will help make the other person the best version of themselves.
When I was trying to quit smoking
and we drank white wine from Mason jars,
you called my freckles cocoa powder
and I called your green eyes
I am learning how to be a grown-up
who pays bills, cooks her own dinners,
and doesn’t cry at words like
I think I just want to be friends.
The thing is this:
Love is an organic thing.
It rots and softens.