This morning, I went into the store to get breakfast in last night’s clothes. Tired from talking instead of sleeping, kissing instead of talking, holding instead of kissing, and from loving in a non-existent kind of way.
You ask me why I’m sad. I’d like to tell you except that I can’t explain the way it washes over me, for a thousand reasons, so many times a day, any more than I can explain how it feels when at every other interval the sunlight falls just right and happiness makes me into its well-loved rag doll again. I can only tell you that I want to know that you sleep better at night when I cling to you like wet clothes. And that one of my favorite feelings is your breath on my back. That when I was a little girl I taught myself not to map out the details of a scenario in the way I wanted it to go because things never happened the way I imagined they would. I can tell you that being alive overwhelms me every hour on the hour and that is sometimes good, sometimes bad, sometimes nothing. Maybe instead of understanding why I’m sad you can know that the first time you put your hands in my hair I was scared of how normal it felt, and I have looked for the same comfort from your hands ever since. It’s only my own heartbeat that I cannot stand to feel, but if I can curl up under your arm, beside your ribcage, that precious sound will be louder than my sadness and I will fall asleep just fine.
Tonight, the air smelled of honeysuckles as my bare feet fell on the pavement. I breathed in deeply to remember that I am alive. I poured a cold glass of wine and only looked at it until it adjusted itself to the temperature of the room and wasn’t what I wanted anymore, yet I drank it anyway. I filled hours of thoughts I didn’t want to have with conversation that I needed as much as I needed bare feet on pavement. This is what I did today instead of dying.