I haven’t thought of you in weeks, haven’t spoken to you in months, haven’t seen you in years, yet somehow you’re standing in my bedroom right now and I’m opening up to you. Painfully and reluctantly yes, but filled with so much relief that I haven’t felt in many moons.
A small red flower blooming by my ankle. One you placed there even though I told you I don’t want them anymore. Not from you. But you smiled and insisted and handed me another one. You mesmerised me and I smiled, you’re so good to me. I didn’t realise how much I missed you until you were stood here in front of me.
These flowers you’ve given me are attracting butterflies and suddenly my room is filled with such beauty that only I am able to see. I know eventually it will all turn to dust but I can appreciate it while it’s here. It’s going to be harder than last time to clean it all out. But maybe I don’t need to. Maybe just because no one else can see the beauty in it doesn’t mean I can’t embrace it. Maybe a drought is not the best thing for me anymore.
Maybe we should celebrate your return with a fresh bottle of vodka.
It still feels just as good as it did two years ago.