My life pressed like those perfect folded sheets. Married in steam and good intentions of having life together.

Of course, that always starts with making your bed in the morning and filling the days with things you ought to do.

I'd spent my whole life trying to be this person....

I can't but help miss the stain on my coffee table and my linen sheets sprawled across my floor waiting for my return.

The chaos in my life felt like a harmony of bethovan's seventh symphony. A beautiful orchestrarted master piece I could only make the sense of.

I was an absolutist. Completely content with the messiness of it all. Entirely captivated by the beauty and desire with urge to succumb to it all.

The unequivocal grounding of not giving a **** at all if at least felt good.

I can't help but wonder if the person I'm unbecoming is the person I should be saving.

So what I romanticize this life?
Let me lean into the simple moments.
Cherish them like they are picture perfect.
I want to carry the conch shell
& pretend I still hear the ocean at bay.

My heart is spring in January. I can feel it in my bones when it's about to rain. The smell, the unearthing of everything we buried. It's the way in grief too.

Anniversaries are the seasons we never can quite escape. Pulling us back into the tundra & frozen in time. We revisit the moments as if they never quite left us.

I swear each year the midwesterners must reckon the seasons changing yet again, but each winter all still feels the same to them....

Like it was the very first time.

My history doesn't define me.  
I write my past presently.

We are weary of those who fall in love easily.

They only choose to see the best in us.

Even when we have forgotten.

I miss you doesn’t quite fill the gaps.
Holding onto something I never quite really had.
A break up before a relationships hurts more than the actual heartbreak.
The shattering of a love narrative I often wish I had.
I tend to break the glass before it falls.
A preempted move.
An unconscious notion to write a story before it happens.
It’s muscle movement of instincts to protect the fragile parts of myself.
The destruction of a relationship before it could blossom.
I thank myself for surviving this long;
But I have forgotten how to live in my after story.  
Trust.
Love.
Faith.
Hope.
Things I once could never afford.
I find myself in debt to those past experiences.
Never quite knowing how to presently spend myself.

I haven’t had a partner in so long that I’ve forgotten I am single.
The memory foam on the left side of my bed only knows left over books and plates.

The empty places replaced with the things I learned I loved.
Only open spaces here are for self-affirmations doused in lavender.
Most of which I loved was uncherished until I had room for it.
The parts of myself I could never find underneath the cover of someone else.

The sheets get wrapped between my legs and for a second, I am reminded of how untangled I am.
How free it feels to be in a place you didn’t wish you were somewhere else or someone else.
A brief recollection of finally not being lost in another.
Deep open breaths of I am finally here.

I am reminded how calm this place feels – the comfort of not missing anything. How the spaces in between are cultivated by a reflection of my love - not those I once loved.