I start the coffee. Outside the street is quiet and empty and still. The air is warm, humid, I undo my jacket. I’ll gladly miss a thousand nights for a single morning like this, before the city wakes, before it wipes the sleep from its eyes and I’m the only one out. All downhill from here.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
Comments
Post a Comment