A kiss

I close my eyes for sleep and I dream of kissing.

The kiss where your face is held and you can’t feel your toes, it feels like there is no other part of you existing except for that kiss.

Because when my eyes are open, sometimes I feel

so empty, the weight of it dragging my feet, worried that if I step down too hard, the earth will crack open and dirt and leaves and debris will begin crawling up my legs, to cover and swallow and bury me.

Heartbreakingly lonely. For my friends, my family, for the people I love and miss continuously. Every time I see a part of myself it revolts me; a limb, a toe, an eye so singular and detached. A desperate insect flying at the glass jar wall, time and futile time again, to break free.

Disappointed. For having had a life, a lifestyle, for being a person that was liked and loved and had meaning. For somehow feeling responsible for losing that and knowing, really, I can’t get it back.

So fucking homeless; a life in boxes stacked one on another, lifeless, useless, meaningless. The things that were part of a place, that fit with friends and events and laughter now echoing and stagnant in a cement container.

Lost, aimless, directionless. I remember who I was but can’t picture, no matter how hard I try, who I might be. Living in the present, desperately gripping, clinging to each day, each moment before it moves into a void of tomorrow.

Haunted.

Wasted.

But when I close my eyes, I breathe, a small moment of darkness and quiet where I dream of a kiss. And it is enough to allow the tiniest glimmer of hope. Enough to go to sleep to. Enough to get up for.