My soul is its own blog with a thousand things written that I could and would never publish here, even if ‘here’ was something private that only I could see and understand. I wish I could tell you everything.
I wish I could mention names and tell their stories. I wish I hadn’t promised myself that I wouldn’t. I wish I wasn’t the queen of false assumptions, because if I wasn’t, I maybe wouldn’t think that everyone else was and that everyone else would read too far into something or much less than I’d hoped.
I wish that I hadn’t written so much about them right before they left. Now I don’t write at all.
My life is zipped, an “I solemnly swear to not write about him until I know he’ll stay” signed in broken handwriting across my fingertips. I may have to wait eons to write another name here.