learning to love the fool in me.
Go ahead and try, but it’s futile. You will whiff the fragile petal of some misery you thought you had gotten rid of in the middle of a dust-covered road. In mid-guffaw, you’ll run your tongue over your teeth and find the tiniest bit of melancholy lodged in the minute space between your molars. You’ll look in the mirror and see it run through your head, peeping briefly out the portholes of your eyes to remind you of its company. It will get dislodged from some perch deep within your insides and you’ll feel it sloshing around with the liter of water you just downed to drown some unidentifiable emptiness. It will possess your finger for just a moment and ensure that in that moment you issue forth the most scathing insult possible. It will appear perched on the sudden arch of an eyebrow, or kick its leg and send your eye twitching into a second long spasmodic dance. Even if you have subdued it, it will come careening into your brain riding the single note of a song you haven’t listened to in years or trickle into your mind the exact second you manage to embrace sleep. It will send the tiniest shock into your bring from somewhere sinoatrial while raising an obelisk to the dark and twisties in a single goosebump. Good luck, you fool, and hang in there.
