Here's to being alone. Corners and invisible tears. Hiding behind cups of coffee and straight faces. Gentle sobs muffled by pillows for no good reason because no one will hear you anyway. Withdrawing from best friends because six years is just a number and all it amounts to is empty glances, thoughtless words.
But here's to finding the little things. A song you feel before you know the words, a friend you love before you know their middle name. Here's to writing letters begging you to run away with me. Here's to drafts in my mind and on lined paper. Legs dangling out of windows and pretending it's sunny.
Here's to memories that resurface, regrets that draw blood like ink out of a pen, here's to growing, changing, being and feeling. Here's to lovers who only became lovers once they were gone. Here's to midnight poetry, phone calls every hour of the day, double texts and artificial, superficial hearts. Here's to discovering what hurts and what feels good with the wrong person.
Perhaps this is a preamble, a beginning or an end.
YOU ARE READING
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Randomsome poetry and prose found inked in the last few pages of a red notebook and the depths of my mind
