I feel comfortable holding your hand, like I am not worrying about sweating too much, or moving too much.
Like I am not worried about anything.
Five months from this very moment I will be rocking back and forth on the couch questioning my existence.
I will be checking your every status update, deleting you and re-requesting you.
I will stalk your web presence the way I traced your body with imaginary fingers.
I will poke you, and cry into a pillow “love me back or stab me I don’t care I just want something to happen.”
I talked to a friend once about my depression, I asked him what the fuck am I even doing here,
to which he replied, “being human.”
and I felt like everything made sense and I was going to be ok or something.