So I died many times that year.
In the cold, in the storm, on the run or on the drunk for my heart did not want to beat
but kept on beating anyway
and my pain was as real as real can be,
and I tried to learn and deal and run and feel
but nothing really worked.
I built a comfortable home in my sorrow and settled into a quiet living. No sparks or grand gestures, just a simple daily hymn to comfort. The leaves fell off the trees and coloured this city in all kinds of pretty, and some days that was enough to make me smile at least a little bit, within. || from my book “Another Vagabond Lost To Love” ♡