There are no answers.
My bed is soft. The windows are open. I don’t write very much because I don’t have very much to say. Sometimes it’s easier to be a muse. Sometimes it’s easier to be mostly fiction. And if I cannot be the pages, then press me between them ’til my perfume lingers.
There are lighter things to do, to have, to be. It’s May and the air is warm — so is my heart. I don’t always have to sing the bruises to the surface, or pick at the sutures. It’s okay to laugh. It’s okay to just let the sunlight in every now and then.
There are no answers — or maybe I’m just sick of the same old questions.
Either way, it’s beautiful here.