I’m drinking warm pumpkin harvest tea outside in the chill of an early October night,
Curled up under a star less sky.
A warm flannel
that previously belonged to a boy I once loved deeply,
but now become panicked at the sound of his very voice.
And
I’m wondering how I made it eighteen years
without breaking.
And
It may have just been because I was destined to feel what right now feels like.
To take in every bit of emotion my few senses can absorb
68 degrees curling around every inch of exposed skin
Rough concrete pressed against my body
The sweet scent of moon flowers lingering through my lungs
A lone street lamp flickering at the end of my neighborhood.
I can make it another eighteen years,
If only to be promised to experience this night in this very same way again.