“This isn’t forever,” I find myself whispering most days.

Reminding myself that where I am is where I’m supposed to be. I can’t kick or scream or work hard enough to run from a season I was made to stand in.

It looks slow, like molasses straight from the jug. Painful like losing your best friend.

But it’s sweet in the most inconceivable ways. Vases of hydrangeas that I bought for myself. Days spent completely alone. Exploring the places no one else cared to see. Weekends snuggled up on friends’ couches. Wondering if there will be a time when things look different.

I guess maybe I’ll stop standing and sit a while. Stop kicking and screaming. Take a break and stop working so hard to run from this season.

Because it’s filled with sleepy mornings and lonely afternoons spent using words to stitch up wounds that have been open too long.

It’s defined by Freddie Mercury t-shirts and pints of blueberries eaten in bed with Forrest laying on my chest.

It’s marked in my memory by the messy stacks of poetry thrown around my room. Time spent searching for something that describes the feelings currently swirling in me.

It’s slow and hard but simple and deliciously quiet.

“This isn’t forever,” I find myself whispering most days. Reminding myself that one day I’ll ache for different reasons. Ache for days spent with no words and blueberries in bed.

Slow like molasses. Painful like losing your best friend. Breathtaking like a painting filled with sadness. It’s not easy, but beautiful regardless.

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