It’s half quarter before midnight and the moon is half-asleep. Its quiet light tenderly splayed out in the darkest spots. Behind the tallest lamp and two inches above the headboard and on my chest and in between my fingers. The careful moonlight feels like a warm hug. A goodbye that oddly sounds like a hello too. I’ve forgotten how a spine can stretch comfortably when the night eases all the tension away. 28 feels a lot like sprawling out and unbending until pressure points are loosened and you’re completely exposed. I don’t hold onto a lot of people anymore. I still listen to the same old songs and watch the same shows, but I stopped waiting on things and people to catch up to me. I say “I love you” once but show it twice and more. I’m learning to just sit with the painful memories instead of recycling them into lessons. Same with people too. My heart is still soft, but I’m a far cry from 16 years old. My hands are still always searching for warm places to touch, but I’m remembering cold places are touch-starved too. I often miss summer when it’s cold and damp. And miss the chilly air when I’m baked under the Michigan heat. I think about how I used to miss parts of myself in the same way. Perpetually unsatisfied and mystified of what could be.
I spent the last year stretching out all my limbs and unfolding skin that remained hidden for so long. Light-starved and unseen. I want to remember not just the grandest experiences but also the quietest moments. I want to be felt and seen. My 20s have been a lot of drowning out all the noise to hear myself. My voice spreading farther and louder like the glistening sun rays of July. All my light reaching into places and people I’ve met and yet to meet. I want to grow warm, grow full. I want to tuck light and love in all the darkest spots. Inside a dresser and underneath the bed and on my nape and in all my bones.
