The air around me feels heavy -- the smell of your thick musk overcoming the scent of fresh flowers you brought me.
Loose leaves find their way across the tapestry that is my bedspread (in more ways than one.) My fingers are outstretched into the air trying to grasp this moment but nothing catches. I am alone in stagnant air, feverish with worry and all-consuming love, aching under the pressure of the crushing heaviness of today.
Nothing happens. Nothing will happen unless I will it, or unless you do. I experience moments like this where I know there is a God. There must be if I can feel the crushing weight of seconds passing without you. I know I can’t be whole alone, but I can try my damnedest.
So often I have these moments of sweet lucidity, of pace-quickening memories and thoughts inexplicably tied to the past. So often I let them run their course without so much as trying out the drivers seat.
I am a two-headed fetal pig and you are tapping on my glass, complaining about the smell of formaldehyde. I know there’s more to life beyond the constraining walls but I’m ever-attached to my secured location that even the dust causes a fuss when disturbed. I have my own place; everyone does—make sure to get you
Your own.
