Spilling

the words stop sounding like my own when i know you’re there, so i am going to pretend there’s no one here but me.

i’m waiting for my laundry to dry so that i can go to bed. it’s not even 9pm, but i want to slide under my covers and sip tea simmering from the pot and read spilling open for the zillionth time and finish up the pages in my journal and think about things that i haven’t thought about in a while.

just, i don’t know, because.

i hope we are not running out of things to talk about.

that is my fear. there’s a difference between comfortable and empty silence. comfortable silence is knowing looks and holding hands under the table and things previously said so that you just don’t need to speak right now. empty silence is why are you still here i have nothing more to say to you so please go away already.

i don’t want you to grow tired of me, because i certainly am not tired of you. it’s actually the contrary, and that’s why i’m still here.

maybe it’s just a matter of time and space : knowing when to speak and when to listen and when to just crawl under your covers and spend the night alone.

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