#feelingtowrite

Mornings used to smell like, blueberry pancakes, like the comfort of my mothers voice in the morning, like her gentle smile when I sit at the kitchen table to eat them. I miss how...safe.. words sounded in her mouth, how her love was so fragrant, how you could tell how important you were just by one glance. Everything used to feel so, simple and complete, like nothing in this world could ever be bad enough for heartache. This morning, smells like burnt toast and dirty laundry, the chaos from our lives colliding into one heaping mess, so busy in our routines that we forgot how to touch one another. I, am so fearful of distance, awkward in my placement - I do not know where to stand when everything I do is a misstep. I grew up in a loving home where love had no boundaries, where mornings were the waking of our hearts, not the preparation for disappointment, nor the predetermined way of acting heartless. You, are so cold to hold sometimes, like, my arms could never be warm enough to thaw you. I, don’t know how we got to this place of gloom and defeat, but I used to wake up on Sunday mornings by your kisses on my cheekbone and the morning sunshine in my eyes. Our love, has never seemed more complicated and doomed, used to value the feeling of home in your presence, now I feel nothing but the bitter draft through our broken frame. This morning smells like burnt toast and dirty laundry, chaos overcoming the life we once built for ourselves. Chaos, destructing us in its path, Chaos - when a love like ours can’t even stand a chance.