In this world, there are tough spaces.
There’s the rain that comes down so quickly it pools on the pavement. It rushes and whirls, frantically searching for a way out. There’s the ripples in the puddles that hug the curbs, they ricochet into the edges of me. I feel the dampness in my soul. I feel stiff and achy for change and a soft blanket. I want to be wrapped in a warm towel embrace. To nestle into a neck and feel a wet strand of hair on my cheek. There is the ache of missing.
There is a bench on the coast where the water rushes into the shallow, and I saw you there, more than once. There's a place on the hill where you live, and I'm not sure I'll ever run into you. I’m not sure I want to. There's a seat on the plane next to you and I don't know if I should take it. It was never mine to begin with. There are so many spaces you could fit in, and I admire how you fill none of them. You dance your own streets at dusk, not bothering when the streetlights turn out. You are your own beacon.
Your shadow passes shop windows and you don't look once. You don’t need to.
You throw your body in front of oncoming pain. You protect. You walk with your shoulders pinned back as if you’re not carrying the world on them.
There are words, that might not be spaces, but they echo through them. You know, the words that feel like cereal scraping the roof of your mouth as they come out. There’s blisters with bandaids that won’t stick. There’s emptiness that won’t be satiated by a good meal, not even a good cry.
There are hollow nights where instead of a head and a neck, I have a hot air balloon balancing on a toothpick. The pressure mounting. The emptiness expanding.
There’s thoughts that still fight for attention even though my mind’s been in overdraft for days. There’s ball of yarn thoughts and runaway train thoughts. I’m equally afraid of each of them.
And then there are good spaces.
There’s the arm of a chair, the one you perch on because the kettle is calling you, but the conversation’s too good. There's the flour on the counter, remnants from homemade pizza dough and how you forget that adding water won’t clean it. There’s the sticky-handed laughter that follows. There's a wine glass on the side table, a ring of red on the coaster. There's a candle half melted and a drawer full of magazines. There's a couch that’s only comfortable when you're sitting on it. There's a bathroom door that isn't closed often. There a door creak in the morning. A teddy bear traded. A plant gifted. The perfect card.
There’s spontaneous afternoons in the sun drinking sangria. There’s so many photos and then there’s forgetting to take any at all. There’s hugs that are all elbow and peripheral giggle. There’s overused phrases and comical mispronunciations that become the only way to say it. There’s hoppy days and stolen glassware. There’s toilet paper turns and comfortable silence.
There’s aging, and the way you make me feel okay about it.
There’s time, and the way I want more of it.
There’s life, and the way I am grateful for it.