I surround the pillow with the blanket and imagine it’s flesh and skin. I press my tear soaked cheek against it and hold on tight. My arms wrapped around something warm. It’s enough to still my heart. Enough for one more night.
Today I observe myself with the distant curiosity that I do the leaves dancing outside my window. Today I watch others glide by like shadows on a pale wall. Today I wait, without a preference, for life to come or go.
It is at times lonely and at others lovely to be an important Someone to some while being nobody’s One.
Distance is often the closest thing.
God: the most desperate and widely recognized manifestation of our collective loneliness.
Nothing brings home my ultimate aloneness quite like polite conversation.
My hands have touched few but my heart compensates by holding many.
Our most glorious portrayals of love are frequently written by those whose love was unrequited. For longing enriches imagination while having lends itself to living.
It is the vestiges of things elsewhere that most attract me to life.
It is in the space between our words that we may best see one another.