I anticipate tiredness tomorrow. Fatigue. It’s thirty minutes to two and I’ve been counting the stars as they appear. Conversations shed by the light from the bathroom, nothing ever good comes at this time. We speak. We laugh. Nothing even matters in those moments. He asks what makes you feel alive and I can’t even say my honest truth. It’s complicated. Seriously. What makes me feel alive? I don’t know. You? Can I say you? Or is that too much pressure? Is it hard to understand what it means when I say you make me feel alive? I can live without you but if I had the option to, I definitely wouldn’t. I can manage a life without you. I can do a lot of things without you. But if it’s written in the way I pray for it to be, i won’t have ever have to feel the loss of you. It’s the energy from your words. The passion in your tone when you tell me you love me. When you whisper encouragement. From the way your eyes light up every single time you remind me how great I am. There’s sweetness and softness in your smile. There’s butterflies when you exist. How many ways can I be revived in one lifetime with just the presence of you? Phone calls. Face to face. You light up my world. That’s a lot of pressure for one person. What makes me feel alive? I don’t want to complicate anything. So instead I just reply: my writing. What’s safe to say is always easier to live with. I’ll give this up to maturity. I’ll face my heart in the morning.
Artwork: The Beneficial Promise by René Magritte, 1927. Oil on canvas