Sometimes, you are afraid.
The “what ifs” hover over you like some form of suspended confetti. Pieces of paper ready to slice open a fresh wound. You taste blood in you mouth. Sharp. The smell of copper.
Ink drips from the pen as you pour your anxieties on a crisp sheet of paper. What will the future hold? Am I worrying too much? The ache is a fungus festering for years. All over the canvas of your mind.
You dab perfume on your neck. Prayers on your lips.
He entwines his fingers with yours, and touches the crease between your eyebrows. Our words tremble with hope.