Nobody is in love with me and everything is still warm. Still soft. Still cookbooks and salt air. Still mostly kind. Still often uncomplicated. Still mints at the bottom of my purse. Still sweet tea in a pitcher, a cold glass with three lemon slices, a full ice cube tray.
Changing is our normal state. Even if we're not changing on the outside we're changing on the inside. There's some stuff about me that I've been ignoring for a long time. I'm afraid of that stuff. But it's part of who I am. As long as I know the shape of my soul, I'll be alright.
That's the thing with time, isn't it? It's not all the same. Some days, some years, some decades, are empty. There is nothing to them. It's just flat water. And then you come across a year, or even a day, or an afternoon. And it is everything. It is the whole thing.
There's a sickening feeling of familiarity,
when the wrong person knows you too well
And you know them too well.
And they weren't always the wrong person.