Coming to Terms

I wait for better things to happen. Take small pleasures where I can. Cold spaghetti in the morning for breakfast, gardening in the darkness of the night. I ease my mind in quiet ways, taking in my disappointment measure by measure, holding onto it long enough to let it go.

I let go of dreams in singular silence, a sweet exhale of breath that sends dandelion puffs soaring on the wind, scattering seeds, scattering weeds of what remains to make flowers so unwanted by some, and only cherished by few. It is what we make of it I think. The way we feel about something or someone that can take us to the greatest of highs or sink us to the very bottom of our lows.

We choose how we will spend our days and survive our nights. In a low lit room to lose yourself in the thoughts of someone else, in a low lit room to take comfort in the feel of foreign arms. But what comfort can be given if there really is no comfort to receive? Nameless and faceless, a body to slide beneath them to dull their pain. You pretend to feel warmth rather than what you feel. Cold and clinical, waiting for it to just be over, for him to just go home. To stop showing up at your door with a long list of takes and a non-existent list of gives. You grow weary...

"I am not nothing," you say into the silence. He buckles up his pants and pretends to be sorry. You watch him sit there with nothing to say on your couch, waiting for him to say something other than the same old worn out excuse. But he doesn't hear you and he cannot see you, and you think again how invisible you are when you're not being what he wants.

Shedding your skin like ice melting on a hot summer day, you shake him off showing him the door, closing it behind him, thankful only that he is gone and you are coming back into being yourself once more...