tired

Maybe this lack of words, for my part, is merely a result of being Unequivocally, Simply and Truly Tired.

But, of what? I haven’t done anything and I’m already tired of nothing. I want passion. I want it back.

I remember what it was like to be in love. Not just with a girl. Though, certainly, I have loved several times and sometimes, all at the same time. I used to be able to fall in love with a lip-shaped smudge on the mirror. Or, a perfectly made paper airplane that glides and flips and floats and lands with ease on the pavement under the sweltering sun. Or, a mathematical proof that started out ugly with square roots and exponents and powers of two and ten and five and fractions that could make my mother cry, but ended quaintly and promptly at x being equal to y over a rainbow, or something like that. Or the sway of a woman’s hips as she walks across a garden, sweat on her upper lip and her nape, her blushing child at her hip, sucking on a lollipop and humming her lullabies to himself. Her skin, you just know, would be yellow and purple at the bone where her babe had been nestling since birth. But there is no pain, only the comforting ache of presence. So beautiful. A woman’s body is the map of the universe. It was made to make loving easy.

Nothing was so ugly that it couldn’t teach you to love.