I wonder what in the world I am doing. These were not my dreams. I fell into this due to the overwhelming pressure and weight of divorce upon my feeble psyche. I am not cut out for this. My words will never form a tourniquet to help heal universal suffering. I want out. I want to breathe the way I was destined to, through whatever purpose has my name on it.
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I wish her arms were potent enough to carry the relentless weight of despair nestled in my bruised conscience. Her eternal home so warm and welcoming, she has gone where nothing lasts but a mere second. I want to go home, back to where hopscotch and jumping rope were the trustworthy confidants I came to cherish and release childhood aches upon. If only she were here to tuck me in, the lone survivor of saturday night dreams under orphaned sheets, and leave cigarette scented kisses on my peach-fuzzed cheeks with freckles in alignment; the dots have yet to be conjured but connected in whispers of past sentiments.
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You need a higher resolution to picture my story.
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I have a box of broken conversation hearts; an ample metaphor for loss worn on my sleeve.
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