#quiet things

some silences are chosen.

some are offered.

i don’t need to be understood.

Love’s greatest tragedy isn’t anything loud or obvious…but rather it is quiet, little tragedies of love, the small moments we live for, the moments we no longer get to see, the one’s now lost to us. Like their smile, and how we can still hear their laughter echoing in our hearts. Their eyes, the way they look at us and how we can still feel the weight on us. And, their hands, the way they touch us and how our skin still feels the burn. It’s always there…these tiny memories… but, we can no longer hear it or see it or feel it. It lives inside of us now, still so alive. Still so haunting. All these things, you may think go unnoticed… and yet, these are the things we miss the most. And now, the small things become the big things. Because the biggest tragedy in love is in all the missing. So much missing of small, quiet things.

It’s a quiet workday (knock on wood that I didn’t just play myself) and it’s cold out; I’m listening to gregorian chant music; I’m tucked under fuzzy blankets and I have super enjoyable writing to look forward to and obsess about.

My brain is calm and not being awful.

There’s a dog and sister in the other room that I love, a fiance at work who is my life, I get to hang out with really great people online.

Greenandgoldand full of secrets --

                                  the fragility of it all pulls

the dew down the torso

and into evaporation.

Inside, a universe sleeps and

they are gentleandheavyand filled 

               your mouth with vapor

while you were sleeping.

Limbs are so light, you could mend into

the blueandquietand forget 

without rearranging anything.

they sit where the light already is,

talk like time is generous,

leave their jacket behind by accident.

i tell myself this means nothing.

i am very good at meaning nothing

when it feels safer.

but the room remembers.