sometimes my brain gets stuck on phrases. lately, over and over, i hear life is full of -, life is full of -, life is full of - but never what it’s full of. i offer up little poetic endings. life is full of light frames; her glasses reflecting in the fall rain. life is full of pie tins, of baked goods, of digging in.
it’s a bad day. life is full of bad days. life is full of tangled bedsheets and moments between reading and staring at the ceiling. life is full of pauses, of held breaths, of could-haves. life is full of mistakes, of entanglements, of bitter rants.
life is full of. i am empty and collecting dust. but life is full of something, isn’t it. it is full of spiders and halogens and lighters and laughing friends. life is full of wounds and life is full of band-aids. she sleeps half on top of me, curled against my frame. life is full of warm bodies. life is full of cold ends. life is full of getting-out-of-bed. life is full of broken ribs and life is full of fixing them.
this morning, i am okay. the coffee is made right. there’s a free hot chocolate waiting. life is full of free hot chocolates. life is full of expensive drinks. life is full of cars and waiting and music softly playing. life is full of one more chapter, of listen-to-this-podcast, of chewing off my thumbnail. life is full of hands and thighs. life is full of accidental touches and little wild mice.
what if, i realize in her bed. what if. life is just full, and that is the whole thing, and i have never felt full like this before, and it is new and unusual and making me drunk on it. life just is full. and it is full enough, and the hole in me is mostly closed up. life is full, life is full, life is all good clean chess games and all messy kissing rough. life is her skin and your hair and the sun, glorious, creeping up.
the sun in you also rises, and life is full, and life is full, and life is full of.
not miss you like an idle thought; miss you like september. miss you like where am i going to get warm. like the slow turn of leaves. i miss you like cold rain and collecting old pennies. i miss you like there are no more sundays to curl up and read. i miss you like the night is empty. i miss you fully, without capacity, daunting.
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The Minimalism of Tea: An appreciation of a simple pleasure.
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