December heralded so much dismay that it seemed impossible to escape that vortex of 31 heart stomping days. Break downs, break ups and make ups, phone calls in search of a connection, everything felt tragic to the point of comedic humility. But now we stretch through the torrents of rain for the patch of sunlight to grow and heal our battered hearts. Hippie pyscho shit? No, it's optimism that it can't get worse. Is it really necessary to spit on me after you've broken my shins and taken a kidney?
January will recite moments of mourning but February, glorious February, must hold redemption for the nonsense of the past year.
1 comment:
That's how I felt, minus the break-ups and make-ups. My love life has been at a dead stop (few false starts) for months.
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