#stainedpages

[storytist]

A friend once asked me, “How do you know when you love someone?”

It’s funny because I get asked that a lot.

“I think it’s the way they say your name,” I say. “Like you know it’s safe inside their mouth.”

“Could you tell me more?” They ask.

I reply, “You trust them. You trust that when they talk about you with others, there’s no ill intent. That they take notice of the little things and appreciate you. They accept you for who you are, flaws and all. And they love you so much that words cannot do justice.”

[its-toasted]

Internet Love

Turn the lights off. Or at least say something soon that means besides  I’m giving up on you.

There is a bitterness here that has long since cracked the gentle. I know love is stubborn, that you build it with clay but it’s meant to learn resilience not resistance to change. 

And maybe we’re scared cause we understand exactly what we might find. That tomorrow we might wake up in the blue sky house by the farm in sandy spring having fallen in love with our two dogs and left each other letters in the mailbox and wasted away seasons falling asleep in wheat fields and igloos and mud

[storytist]

Do you ever think about why you come back here?

Is it the familiarity? Is it the security?

It’s strange because I always seem to find my way back here. No matter how much time passes, I make my return.

Writing here has always felt sort of like home.

[storytist]

My world has been hauntingly quiet. I’m tired, so very tired. I don’t like admitting to it, but I feel my soul draining from my body. I’ve been physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. I feel myself pulling away from everyone around me. After hours I just want to be alone. Work is work, after all. I just don’t feel like talking when I don’t have to. I can’t be bothered to reply. I’d rather the messages go unread. I feel burnt out by all that I’ve done. Consumed by all I’m doing.

I’d like to live in solitude a little longer.

[storytist]

I’m just tired most days.

Tired of people failing to meet my expectations.

But, I can only blame myself for this weariness because the root of disappointment is having expectations.

[storytist]

There’s this lump in my throat and scattered throbs in my stomach. I don’t want to say it’s guilt because I don’t feel guilty. I recognize I’m being selfish by wanting complete isolation from the world, but I just want to be alone. I’ll come back eventually.

Until then.

[storytist]

It’s not fair to think that way,

because I knew of your day—

I knew you had a lot in the way.

But, sometimes it’s difficult to keep emotions at bay,

on days filled with gray.

And I wish you were here,

so we could lay—

I miss you, my favorite kay.

[storytist]

It’s the little things.

I often try to remind myself that the little things are significant. Seeing you smile should be enough. Hearing from loved ones should be enough. Baby steps to success should be enough.

Yet, there’s this void within me that hasn’t gone away. For the past week, this emptiness has carried over.

A new week is approaching, and I still feel hermit.