Life does not unfold

it spills

life does not unfold

it spills

across borders
across bedsheets
across the small 
sacred hours
between midnight 
and I miss you

it spills
like honey
slow and golden
refusing to hurry

slipping into mornings
where the light is kind
and the coffee is too hot to drink

into afternoons
that smell like linen and lavender
and nowhere urgent to be

into nights
where the world softens at the edges
and everything feels held
where the lights are low
and the air feels crispy

where we curl into the corners of ourselves
we don’t show the daytime world
and everything becomes
a little more honest
and a lot more possible

it spills in blankets of moss
across the forest floor
and gathers
in the small
quiet places
nobody thinks to look

one day
the hours stop feeling
like something to get through
and start
feeling like something
you don’t want to miss

one day the light spills across you
the tired 
healing face
of a person who never thought
they’d be happy to see
another day

and it surprises you
how gently
that realization arrives

that you have not thought about leaving
in a long while

and life spills in through the cracks
and it does not feel like an interruption
but an invitation

soft
unassuming

as if the world
has been trying all along
to be kind to you

asking nothing of you
except to stay

and finally
you decide 
you just might. 

---

Thank you for reading my dairy 🫶🏻 I just wrote this piece now, and it just felt like a hug someone might need. If you’d like to read more, my collection “A Crown Of Sunlit Things” has the same vibe, and is available on Substack, as well as Amazon, and a few other bookstores :)

A Crown Of Sunlit Things

I am going to try to stay active, but I have a lot of school work coming up for my masters. The fact that I wrote this after paying my last cent to tuition says a lot 😅