I wrote this on the back of a dirty napkin left on the bench after a storm:
This isn’t the bed we shared. These sheets never knew our passion. And this home is not the one we once fantasized of. These walls hold no memories of our words, hold no understanding of what we meant to each other.
Passion spent on overdue rent and I think I’m coming down heavy on the world around me. No words, just muted records comprised of lyrical notes passed to each other in some sophomore Spanish class. Each time the storm passes, I’m left wondering what ever happened to the joy in your voice, the light in your eyes.
Do I punish myself for not moving forward?