Feathers of deep black and cool green.

Sunday morning. Stop. Can't leave sheets. Stop. Laughter, my roommate's, drifting from the bedroom down the hall. Sigh, stop. I've chosen this, but I wish it wasn't mine; this starkness. Stop. Sleep, but fitfully. In my state of half-wake, half-dream with an injection of self-pity, my mind wanders wildly. Green, pale, eye contact, water, damp salty hair, incomprehensible words (this is not my language), catching one train then another, rearranging cutlery, tracing the bony line of your back and not knowing why but it feels like perfection. Stop.

The black material against my skin is soft; worn. I don't know where it came from and I don't at all care. It feels like smooth hands and that is all that really matters. I make too much coffee, watch absently while it brews and once a cup coiling heat finds its way into my hands, I wander my apartment, immersed in thought (yet thinking nothing in particular). Sometimes, rather than reflecting or sorting out or analyzing, I find myself identifying emotions. Like, here I am leaning against the side of my hallway that is covered with art: sadness. I trail fingers along the wall, deep red and cool to the touch, and by the time I've transitioned into the living room in one fluid motion, there is also regret. They layer against one another, companions that lend comfort and also unrest. I twist myself into a corner of the couch, the sun-streaked one, drain the last of the black liquid warming my innards, and all I can hear is the softness of my own breath. There it is...confusion. It settles in like an old friend; a ratty t-shirt that you put on and remember its exact folds; how it falls and feels against your body.

My insides bleat for another coffee, and so I peel myself off the couch and slip into the dining room. That is where the fear resides, or at least where it preys on me. My steps falter for a moment; wondering, recognizing. I don't even need to look that one in the eyes to name it and know it. Being afraid is a sensation as familiar as exhaustion or hunger. It's there and I know it. I stand, wordless, as it joins the sadness, regret and confusion. They are an intimidating force, and it seems that they are a united front today. Bastards.

In the kitchen though, there is hope. As I drape the remains of the coffee pot into my mug, I feel it. Compared to the daunting gang of negativity, it is weak, but it is there. It beats like a baby sparrow heart, frail but determined. It strips a layer of the weight off me, and the lightness is a significant change, if only to myself.

It is there, and I know that it is not going anywhere. If anything, it has yet to fully flower and show itself. When it reaches the surface, I am confident that I will know it and embrace with a vengeance.

Until then, bisous.