there’s no such thing as a perfectplace.
no hardwood floor without that one exposed nail head
no bookshelf full of novels that evoke only layered laughter
no pantry stocked with just peanut butter pistachios and chili chocolate
yet i wait for that place
socks on hammer in hand
a few unlikely library books on hold
sun dried apricots and fresh ambrosia apples.
i make this place happen
by writing here
this is my fuckingplace.
how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you