they arrived like postcards from a country i didn’t remember visiting. voices painted in ochre and rain, they touched the air and turned it golden and i laughed, as if my ribs weren’t already a graveyard of unfinished winters. they were constellations mid-conversation, waltzing in the kitchen, burning toast and time. their presence felt like a festival i had no costume for. joy wrapped itself around me like a borrowed sweater- warm, but not mine. sometimes i smiled too wide, like cracked mirrors pretending to be lakes. sometimes i spoke in metaphors because plain speech betrayed the tremble in my throat. i watched myself become fluent in their language still translating every sentence into loneliness behind the eyes. the one that got away wasn’t love or loss it was me, a soft, flickering shadow who once knew how to feel found without folding herself to fit the room. and maybe joy did arrive. but it forgot to ask if i wanted to stay.
Creator of this post? You can edit it here using the edit code you chose while posting.