I'm letting my secrets out and it's working.

I'm not wearing any-colored glasses anymore and that's working too.

I'm taking down the walls you built around me, brick by brick.

I'm understanding things I always knew but never understood.





I'm almost ready to love 100%.

Did you know I saved this for last because it's the part that scares me the most.

What if I am mediocre at best? When all is said and done and the excuses are all gone if I still can't put two and two together the right way?

I went wrong assuming this would be life rebuilt, a slightly altered mirror image of what it already was.

Clearing out the unnecessary leftovers and making it brand new again.

This is a dedication. A recognition, a plea, a melancholic love letter, this is all the things I can't seem to say. It's cryptic and coded and in my secret language that none seem to understand.

I'm sorry. For so many things. That things have come to be as I've let them. I don't know much about destiny, or fate, but I do know that making no choice, or taking no action is a choice and an action. It surrounds the causes and effects with negative space, a haze, and perhaps good things will naturally sprout, but that's not so common. But know that I hold myself accountable, in the quiet hours when all is still and suspended in dreams, I lay and wonder at every turning point when it was still not too late or too far gone or too anything. It's possible of course that it really was over before it began, and I have tried to cast off the residues that seem to sully my every new start, but I know not how to shed them. They are tethered to me as anchors, that perhaps once saved my life and held me to the ground when my thoughts soared too close to the sun. Now even with a running start and you pushing me as you do, my little baby bird wings flap until numb and when I come to I find myself still grounded.

Thank you. For so many things. I am probably terrible at showing appreciation. I'm too awkward to say heart whelming thank you's or make poetic declarations, no matter the depths of my gratitude and admiration. And it is deep. My debt to you is growing with every second and we both know I can never repay it.

It's been hard lately to love. Maybe it was me all along. My heart is swollen, always racing, pumping too much too hard.

I really miss letting my little self out and playing with her.

The closer these things come to becoming a something the scarier it gets. Tons of what ifs and lots of buts, but mostly the dread of settling in, that period of disarray before everything finds its place, becomes comfortable. And I don't mean materially, arranging and rearranging and organizing and setting up is my absolute favorite part. It's more about the minds of the inhabitants, it's more about finding the light switches in the dark and no hesitation in your steps to the bathroom in the late, still hours of sleep times. It's about the subtle, subconscious sighs that don't even register with us anymore when we enter the door, hang our coats, slip our shoes off and drop our days. I don't want it to be a new habitat for our habits, a continuation of what is, what we are; I want it to be a vessel. Each day ushering in chance after chance for a new evolution.

What if she and I are strangers after so long apart. What if our time is forced, full of awkward silences, nostalgic glances. What if it's never an anything ever again.

Merry. Happy.