I wish I could talk to someone. Curl up with a blanket around someone. Pass hours into early mornings just being with someone.

Candles and late night coffee don’t feel the same. Creative space doesn’t expand the same. The world doesn’t spin the same.

Some things I miss. Some I’m happy to have left. Some I want back. Others I don’t ever want to revisit.

I have to go back in time, outside a hospital, when I said point blank: “If you changed, you’d be someone else and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

It’s as true right now as it was back then.
You are the same you as you were back then.
I haven’t gained weight or gotten thin.
These are the same things, just seen through a new lens.
The same flaws with new names.
The same straws with new ways to find new blame.

But at the end of the day, we’re all still in the same stream, playing at the same games, downing our sorrows and drowning out in the same ways.

I only perceive the kinds of love I want through filters of the past. I only grab at dust and smoke. I’m only a flickering candle burning a bit of wick up.

And soon, I know, sooner than I hope — someone will come and grab me by these ropes and say something along the lines of “It’ll be alright for a while.”

And I’ll believe them because I want to. And I’ll come along because I hoped to. And we’ll play and dance and sing for a while because we intended to.

And when the waters rescind our passion and the tides fall leaving us sticking in sticky mud — we’ll retreat into ourselves again.

Spin the wheel and go around.

I don’t hold out a lot of hope for the end result. I expect to hit the ground. I find inspiration in the failures and the terrors and the fears — because I’m full of them. What did you expect?

I have a letter to open in a little over a week.
I have another one to write.
And someone, when I’m dead, will read the last one.

How many more will this hand write? Who knows.
Who cares.


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