Laura

the end of september—I'm feeling hopeful and scared. already, I'm falling into familiar joys. oh right, I do love making a mess of the kitchen sometimes. I love bringing something hot and homemade to my lips. I forgot—it's perfectly fine to snuggle up and cross-stitch, to fall asleep to a documentary I'll no doubt restart tomorrow; to watch my craving for a shower uptick as a substitute for warm touch. I blow the dust off of sweaters that do a great job of holding me close. every year it starts the same: worrying what the fall might bring. remembering what slow comforts worked for me the year before. afraid, again, of the days I might scrape myself out of bed like burnt edges at the bottom of a pan.

not to be horny or anything but i'd listen to your problems and run my fingers through your hair

I will be like "I'm fine" and then another fucking event will occur