Flesh, bones, sad songs, and fresh baked goods.

I'm high in bed. You're getting ready to leave to shoot hand leaf arm shoot deep three. Bada-bing bada-boom.

Our love is a life-long test we are both taking. 

I fall from my horse almost every day, and I know I need to keep falling until I understand when I should be up there in the first place. The truths that throw me look and smell like you, and I love them. That doesn’t mean I don’t get hurt or won’t cry in the face of them. Neither of those reactions mean I’m quitting.

Sometimes the same truth will buck me muddy, and sometimes a new one is sly; an intricately woven rug over a pit dug the night before with my own fucking hands. Self-sabotage. “You’re better than this.” 

Metal teeth grind as you lock the door behind you. I’m high, but that’s not why I felt those teeth.

We, opposing forces personified, made it through almost 27 days without incident.

I’ve been walking for so long that I don’t remember stillness. 

Everyone that used to walk with me is behind me, finding sanctuaries in their simplicity. Or trying to. Denying the idea of heightened potential, so overwhelmed by evolution that they dream of not working. Front porch lemonade every night at dusk.

Lately, single-tasking is foreign to me and only feels right in small doses. You’ve been this way your whole life, though. I’m late to the game; been moving on the ones and the sevens. 

I don’t want to be just like you, but there are parts of me that are years wiser, leagues deeper, and growing, for being more like you. 

Maintaining balance while in constant ascension is a bittersweet challenge. How will I catch up if your top is higher than mine? What if we never really meet?

No one can love you like I do. I’ll make sure of that. You are as deserving as I am of my best self. My tumultuous periods of growth, ugly with dirt and denial, will lead to a better partner than the one who allows self-loathing to over-steep in circumstance.