Easter Baskets

This is the part of life where the breathing stops and everything is underwater and we try to keep out eyes open despite the salt and the sadness and the things we don't discuss. We'll drain it dry and wonder if the baby went out with the bath water or if we've always felt this empty, those chocolate bunnies with the big eyes and nothing inside. 

She waits on the corner of 10th and Jefferson in someone else's raincoat making promises she won't keep beneath those long dark lashes. When did we stop seeing the world in color?

If love is fickle and you are fickle and I love you do they cancel eachother out and make sense out of a dusty world? Do we give up now, tired and taunting, before the sun has risen over the windowsill of the apartment you told me wasn't too small and that you'd paint te sunshine in? The walls are hospital white and you've left again to stretch your legs, stifled and cramped by the way I smile and the touch of my skin. 

When you come back I'll ask you if you're  happy enough to stay. When you come back I'll take you to the sea and show you the way the raindrops fall on the sand. When you come back I'll tell you that I'm scared too, of this thing called love, and that it's okay if the dishes aren't dry and the laundry stays in baskets. 

The minutes turn to hours and I remember the two letter that change the locks and bar the windows. If. If you come back. 


Shonda Rhimes puts me in touch with all the sad stories. 

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