lack of

i wrote this to try and help my friend understand

a creaky mattress of twin size has stopped providing good comfort.
a conversation over text has never once gave any type of warm comfort.
holding hands was apart of validation from others, and not much self love.
the glasses have been worn for four and a half years. they blur the world that held such beauty. they blur the self imagine of the reflection of a girl trying to be pretty. they blur the good of the personality, the good of green trees.
it's mostly cold now, even on simmering, spicy june days.
yes, the wind blows in and the candle flicmers out a pleasing smell, but what was truly felt?
before a two hour move, what was the happiness extracted from the second story porch?
from the two bunk beds of children one and a half years apart in the same room.
from the old, chunky tv that blasted its static into the messy carpet.
what was felt then?
what is not being felt now?
why it is different, and why does it have to be different?
what is wrong with this mind.
it was just explained as dry, colored smears of watercolors on crumpling printer paper. it had nothing to be extracted from it. there was nothing to be explained, there was nothing that could even be described.
for two and maybe a half years that abtract sense of art opened a gate of emptiness and lonesome.
the empty delusion from hearing the fast pace freeway from across town releases some type of longing.
the heavy desire to know what it feels like to be that free.
to be the wind that rushes in and out of green trees.
hurt. hurt. there is no pain.
there is no pain in the room, under the covers of uncomfortable, childhood blankets, of dusty, non-sticky polaroid pictures.
i want to be the wind. i don't wanna be trapped in a room, in a town. i want to be gone.

June 8th, 2020