At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries and ease the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self-made prescription, wipe up the tears and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
You know, sometimes, I miss the gentle flow of air hugging my ribs, how care would wrap me tightly from a word said or a told story. I miss the idea followed by a smile. It might not be wise to miss it all, but, at times, I do when the sorrowful regret decides to escape reality-check meetings at least once in too long.
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