I bet this sounded better in my head.
I'll keep talking and you just tell me when.
“Have you heard, my Mona Lisa, have you heard who you are?”
It’s a strange feeling— having somewhat accomplished a sense of self without ever noticing it, how the moment I was sketching a picture of a sunset I somehow got one on my horizon.
I think that we’re all just so capable but rarely does anyone else see that. I wonder so many nights how many times I’ve cried for not knowing only to learn that that’s how you come to know— by crying.
“With lips and teeth to ask how my day went, boots and fists to pound on the pavement— here comes a feeling you though you’d forgotten.”
When I speak of happiness, my words get so plain. I’m alright with that, I think.
“Somebody found me here. Somebody held my breath.”
