can’t tell if i’m miserable or not.
can’t tell how i’m feeling ever really.
the only feeling i’ve been able to recognize is some sort of happiness when i’m with him.
i say ’some sort of’ because i know i always feel better with him;
i smile, laugh, and i cry with him.
i’m comfortable.
i’m safe.
but at times i sit on his basement couch and i want to feel that ‘better’ feeling
so i smile and i laugh, pleading inside myself to feel that again.
i need that again.
i want that again.
but there’s a filter.
a shade of gray, cradling my mind.
my being.
a coffee filter holding a clump of dark roast thoughts allowing water to pass through
with the cost of a stain in the mug below.
my tongue tastes of the things i ache to say, to finally release and be done with.
it never leaves.
the words stay in my throat, the taste fades to a scattered past.
i sit on that basement couch and swallow.
i deal with that ‘some sort of’ happiness.
i wait.
i wait until what? until when?
what am i even waiting for anymore?