sickly decision

There's a sick sort of sadness to spring, and I love every minute of it. There's no more pretending that I don't understand.

Doesn't it feel like I was here only minutes ago? Every time fearing I might be interrupted. I'm alone, and so are you in the cold, dead way that no one can ever really be. What awful, funny words we've made up to describe the intensity of feeling, of experience. If only you could return to the earth.

The hum of the cars is peaceful. It's like a wave churning. A battle thrumming.

I can get away with this now, living. The mere joy of existence, something stolen away in private moments, tucked under a shroud of appropriate shame. No one in the world understands my love poems. Spring is coming, sure as the setting sun.