It amazes me sometimes, that after all these years here on Earth I could still have so much to learn. Like how to whistle, how to cross my eyes, how to be happy. It seems like such a simple thing, and you say it as if it is so, "Happiness is a choice" and the conviction in your voice, the nonchalant shrug of your shoulders makes me ache, and believe you. But it makes me hurt and wish I was better at it, too. I see the way my childish hands fumble along the seems of love, and sew them crooked. Making a mess out of such beautiful fabric that was just given to me, handed over so freely. Something I wasn't sure I ever deserved. And as much as I adore it, hold it to my cheek to feel it's softness, brag about it all day long to those who possess nothing nearly as lovely, I tear it in the same breath. Fray it's silky edges and leave it tired, ragged.
I wish I knew how to simply believe that what's golden doesn't always fade, and what's good doesn't always die, and what's soft and gentle and loving in every essence of the word, doesn't always disappear.
I wish I knew how to believe that people don't always leave.
But so far, you're the only proof I have.
And my fear only pushes you away.