warsha

dearest dear, there is a butterfly breathing its way out of you. there is a red & blinking button pressed to bear releasing. I am ever so sorry, but still collecting your colors. In the midst of apologies, still pressing your fragile frame to pages; special focus on forever. tomorrow, I will visit you inside your house. shortly thereafter, I will hide underneath your bed; making a nest of your blankets. the following morning, I will infiltrate breakfast disguised as a warm sip of tea. that will become my favorite section, in retrospect. the part when you learned to call me "honey", honey. the part where I whispered and tickled your chin. I

Ten months later, I feel that I’ve aged well beyond my years. Every once in a while, I think back, and it still brings me to tears. Sometimes they come without warning; I’ll cry over movies and cheesy television shows. But, what really gets to me are the things that no one knows. So, I'll just sit and spit out static; a cold caress for dormant ears. Love, like laughter, does no true healing - in truth, it fades & disappears. Distance gets the best of us. We cling to what's left, and it shows in our small, shaky steps and the way we accept second-best for ourselves, I suppose. You don’t know what I went through