I need family. I need comfort. I need everything I had for so long and took for granted. I am sick of crying with my mom over the phone. I am sick of hiding tears in my too-long bangs, of drowning cries in a too-flat pillow, burying emotion in anything that can hold its weight.
It's in my pots, my pans, my rarely-worn jean pockets, my second-to-last drawer that holds the extra paint, under my bed covers, on top of the cabinet, in-between the pages of every well-read book, with wrinkled pages, worn words, bent spine.
It is everywhere. And I am surrounded.
It's in my pots, my pans, my rarely-worn jean pockets, my second-to-last drawer that holds the extra paint, under my bed covers, on top of the cabinet, in-between the pages of every well-read book, with wrinkled pages, worn words, bent spine.
It is everywhere. And I am surrounded.
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