everything & everything
sometimes everything is like whoosh—the rush of blood when you’ve caught him from across the room. when you look up to see that he’s there and he’s yours and it’s the most incredible, fantastic, ridiculous thing you can imagine. but it’s true and you see him and you think, fuck. how’d it ever get this good?
sometimes everything is like ugh—when the weight of your day has finally made its way to your knees as they buckle to the ground. when you can’t imagine doing anything more than dragging yourself across the untidy room, curling apologetically against a favorite leather chair.
sometimes everything is like swish—it’s the tears that collect in your throat, overwhelmed, because you’re breathing in so much unreasonable beauty that it seems absurd that any person (let alone you) should be allowed to exist in a world such as this, a universe full of extraordinary everythings.
sometimes everything is like thud—it’s the bottoming out of a heart as the news finally makes itself heard. it’s the conversation you never dreamt you’d have, but there you are. and there it is. and now everything is real and it hurts to inhale.
sometimes everything is like yow—it’s the white you see when bare fingers are licked by hungry flames. the flash you feel when inanimate comes in wretched contact with animate. when anger throbs in little digits, or not-so-funny bones.
sometimes everything is like tic-tic-tic—the persistent seconds, the ones you hold with such ridiculous conviction. the moments that slip through fumbling fingers, ignorant of the plans you’ve half-heartedly claimed to be yours. these, quite often, are the same moments you secretly scorn yourself for not committing to with every beat of your patient heart.
sometimes everything is like #^@%$!—as you listen to the sounds of your neighborhood infiltrate the peace in your home. it’s the feeling of a break-in, a storming through space you’ve so carefully cultivated with love and good juju. it’s the contrast of a neighborhood, deteriorating like tinder below your well-worn porch, against the little darlings you’ve tucked in to bed on the floor above.
and sometimes… sometimes everything is like nothing—the absence of love and fear and motivation and worry, the missing words, the empty cup, the inability to try or do or fight for one second more.