i want to write about the wonderfully warm feeling that the coffee filled my chest with this morning,
but i am tired
i want to write about how i watched a clump of snow melt and flow into another upon my window,
but i am too tired
i want to write about how i believe people change their minds (and they do!),
but i am tired
i want to write a reprieve about how i'm inclined to believe that when i write, despite all the imperfections of humanity, the word to me will always be perfect.
but believe me when i convey that i am too tired for that too.
i want to write about garlands made of palomitas, little white doves, that fly about the new tree…
alas, i am too tired
and truthfully,
maybe just a little despondent too.
the art of love
l.m