And as I sit by a vase holding seven bright yellow tulips to write to you, I want you to know that I have not forgotten. A mug of steaming mint tea, two ice cubes added and melted (the shit is always too damn hot and I'm always too damn impatient) next to me so that I may cup it with my hands from time to time to remind us both that I can feel.
Take the mug, wrap it with both hands, breathe mint deep the into my eyes; my nose. Swallow.
(pause)
I've had thieves try to convince me that they were my home. Did they really think I would fall for it? It's like experiencing something from a romance novel that has been reverse-engineered by an asshole: It's too easy to see.
Let me remind you that I am an expert witness. And while I have yet to define or justify my expert status, I can tell you this:
These eyes and this heart may love as fully as the bright of these tulips, but this dart-eyed crow upon my shoulder remembers what I have come from, and whispers reminders to me based upon the direction of my feet. Cautions me. Makes certain of the direction of my toes.
I may forgive as easily as a turn of the page, but this is coffin-closing different from returning to a rotten house disguised as a home.
When I write home- in pen; in thoughts- I know exactly who I am writing to.
(pause)
Glory be to the ink-spilt feathers that look over me. People find you leering and crude, but they secretly envy your loyalty and insight all the same.
be well; be loved.
-k.
(image credit to: cabinhome tumblr)
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