(The night went like this: Working on paper. Racist Facebook comment. Reacting. Responding. Returned comment. Possible anger building. Frustration. Text. Love of my life listens. Is it listening if it’s not talking. Yes. Oxytocin. I dunno. Better. Feelings. Reminders. This world. But Don’t worry, everything is going to be okay.)
A lovely house will welcome me sometime, when there is no winter. And where there are no coffee grounds in the empty cup of coffee, which I’ll never drink. Because I only prefer summer. But summers don’t exist anymore. And lovely houses can exist without quilted blankets.
I pick up the phone to text the only person that will care to listen. But is it still listening, if I can’t hear you breathe.
My phone says, “no service.” Anxiety has become my best friend.
A lovely house with doors wide open. Hibiscus on the stove. An almost empty jar where the sugar is supposed to go. But I don’t eat sugar. And now I’m feeling sleepy. The hibiscus is boiling.
I’m beginning to think that sugar kept the old me from erasing the ones who say the things that hurt the most. But is it hurt if after I read the last line I’m not crying, I’m just sitting here contemplating the what ifs and when or how these words today will affect our family tomorrow. The echo of it all makes erasing a harsh word to follow. And the hibiscus is still boiling.
And a better bed is one that mimics the cards as they turn, hoping it’ll make the more appealing hand. So we sleep, and somehow forget all about the wanting and the erasing. This moon turns to make a temporary summer of the sun, and the summer becomes morning, and the morning becomes this lovely house where there is “no service” and only listening. I can hear you breathe in this lovely house. And I can hear the almost empty jar emptying itself into the grounds of coffee piling up into the coffee cup. This is what feeling everything feels like. Even on the inside of the loveliest houses.