Last night, sadness ran its fingers through my hair, and the cold breeze coming in through our bay windows warmed me.
He asks, “What are you feeling right now?”
Mostly, and this is most days, I’m a sad bitch.
But last night, I carried with me a sense of worth that I had never felt before. I carried it around in the pockets of my faded army pants. In the soles of my 21 year-old boots. In the stains of my only white shirt. In the zippers of my most expensive article of clothing. A letter jacket I bought at Bloomingdale’s during the peak of my manic bipolar episode in 2014.
It was everywhere.
Even in the tupperware I took my soup in.
When I carry worth this way, it is cumbersome.
But I get used to the weight of it, and normalize it till it’s part of my own weight.
In our cave, we disengage.
An ennui that satisfies, seeps through our fingers.
We celebrate small victories, like crying and laughing inappropriately.
We wrap our limbs like scarves around each other and whisper words that heal. Forgetting any commas or periods.
We are run-on sentences for each other.
We are Russian novels made succinct.
Food is secondary when we’re in it.
Lovemaking has become a way to heal, a way to satiate, a way to kill the fears.
It’s beautiful to be loved this way. To love this way.
But hunger swells in us after such intimacy.
Naked and laughing we make our way to the kitchen at midnight, and make grilled cheese sandwiches.
A simple meal for such a complicated day.