I can’t seem to say anything meaningful or lovely, and I haven’t in quite some time. I don’t mean to say my writing is ever profound or important, but it usually exists out of necessity and is significant to me because it is my own. And at this moment, there is nothing.
I don’t know where it’s gone, the desire to create lovely things, the familiar acquaintance with words, the power that makes them meaningful, the words and the lovely things.
I hope they’re somewhere close by, somewhere I would go to search for them, under my Nana’s crocheted blanket in the linens closet in my parents’ home. I hope they’re somewhere warm, somewhere they feel welcome, like the lefthand pocket of your winter coat. I hope they’re somewhere safe, where they can’t be touched, somewhere sacred, tucked in the back of a young girl’s diary, the one she keeps under her pillow, guarding the secrets of love unspoken and fears unrealized.
I hope they don’t stay away for too long, fading away like friendships uncared for and forgotten until we’re strangers. I hope they know I need them, that I miss them.
I hope you know that I need you, that I miss you.
Until then, maybe we can listen to music together. Maybe we can bury ourselves in beautiful sound until we feel safe and warm and welcomed and needed and missed and not forgotten, and maybe I’ll find them, the words and the lovely things, and maybe you’ll help me find them. Maybe you’ll help me find me.