Writing

There, on the shelf in my attic, hugged by the pictures and drawings my sister had created, these two shoes sit surrounded yet alone.

Rain, a thing often described as “sad” but think about it. 
Is rain really sad? It feeds crops, cleans the earth? Does that sound sad? 
Think of it as sad, but if you look, like really look. 

I am sitting here by the fairy lights strung 

Through the interior of West’s bus

Listening to him sleep

Writing down everything that I want you to know

Butterfly kiss, soft against my skin.

Promises.

Cyclone of feeling, enveloping not just me, but us.

Anticipation.

Honey-brown sunset eyes, on my green hazel.

Confessions.

Today my friend asked me a question.

Would you rather be living a comfortable lie,

or know an uncomfortable truth?

I wanted to say, The truth. Always.

But what if that's not true?

The portal opens in those fleeting moments that feel like they are about to crescendo, about to climb the final step to see over the mountain top.