there are sweetpeas on my windowsill, the only reminder of a world that exists outside of black and white.

as soon as his plane was safely out of sight, the fog hurried home to comfort me, wrapping tight around the bay and muffling my tooloud music that was trying to hide the tears. backlit by grey, the pines turn charcoal and chalk, and everything beyond the next house is hidden.

i don't like the lurking feeling that everytime i say goodbye i'm killing some part of myself. that each parting makes me harder and colder and yes stronger but not in a way that i want to be. i don't want the armour that would allow me to turn away with blank eyes and steady step and unfaltered heart. i've become too comfortable with distance, and i am afraid that what seems like recovery is just numbness. i feel lost.