I take a sharp drag of a cigarette. It burns the back of my throat and the insides of my nostrils. I exhale with a heavy sigh. Tears slide down my face, collecting along my chin line.
Thank god it's spring. This winter my face chapped in the paths the tears wore.
The leaves are in full bloom now, playfully moving with the wind, a little frenetically at times, as if there were so much growth happening that vibrations dispersed.
I knew all along that something was off. He had reassured me, told me it was part of the process, that early sobriety was scary and different. And, it is, but this is different too. You see that now.
People will always tell you who they are in the little moments. When the contradictions and stretches of truth start to pile up, it is then that you can see. You cannot blame people for who they are. The wild ones, with big ideas and manic rolls, great ideas and little followthrough.
You fall in love with something real, but it turns out that their real only lasts so long. Before you see it, sometimes, they are already on to the next thing. Except, the next thing might just replace you.
How many times will you believe? How many more? Please.
Time is so fragile and there is joy to be had. It may be all there is. Temporary moments of joy, strung together with thick cords of loneliness, plaited with the traumas of life.
It's not enough. Is it? There must be something more. I'm here to say: I hear your desperate tone but I'm afraid though that it is not so. Be grateful you ever felt joy. It is a rarity these days.
