Perennial
My heart is a perennial.
It blooms, rapid and beautiful and red.
I give it to you, and in your hands it wilts.
I give it to you, and I am empty.
I give it to you, waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting, to blossom again.
My heart is a perennial.
Fast to bloom.
Quick to die.
And slow to grow from what’s left behind.
Loneliness
The thing was, Its presence was ubiquitous. It brought home so much else worth worrying about that you didnʼt notice It sitting silently in the corner, reigning over Its little kingdom of Other Things with quiet indifference.
The Other Things were lipsticks. You liked those. They were just your color.
The Other Things were food. Succulent desserts or fresh ingredients or maybe even a recipe thatʼs just your speed. You think you might like the food the best.
Sometimes the Other Things were colds and flus and coughs and pains. Things It brought with germs, that you couldnʼt touch but felt all the same.
One of the Other Things was a new phone. It liked that. iPhone, rose gold—it distracted you into forgetting It was there.
Itʼs a shadow. Itʼs not there when itʼs light enough not to see It, but Itʼs never gone for long, because when it gets dark—and it does get dark—and you canʼt see all those Other Things, Itʼs all you're aware of.
Sometimes you think you're okay with It. You can live with It. Sometimes, It even convinces you that you donʼt need anyone else.
Itʼs lying.
Because when the Other Things arenʼt enough, you feel It.
And you finally know Its name.