Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart;
Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burden,
For selfsame wind that I should speak withal
Is kindling coals that fires all my breast,
And burns me up with flames that tears would quench
To weep is to make less the depth of grief…” —Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part 3
sometimes when i’m walking i put my hand inside my right pocket and rub my thumb on the inside of a half of heart charm and wish for it to either be large enough to use as a boat to float away in, or light enough to use as a glider to drift away on.
i have this dream in which we are laughing and dancing in the kitchen in between pecks on the cheek and chopping vegetables and wiping my glasses from the steam of the gnocchi on the stove and we chase each other through the house while our corgis nip at our pant legs.
i know, it’s a silly dream.
NOTHING GOOD HAS EVER HAPPENED IN MY LIFE UP UNTIL NOW
i won’t walk away.