You must be young

Operated within the premise of a sincere companionship, tiny commitments have run their course. You know this is tragedy and you choose, yet, to respect the love that keeps you going. You must be young.

You’ve checked insights and you’ve sneaked upon profiles. You’re looking for a name, a profile picture, a local catastrophe in the lists. Honey, your Instagram is a mess and you choose, yet, to deploy your fingers, to write messages, to reevaluate emails. You must be young.

Times, the intervals of and between days and nights are landscape for people. For you, they’re reminders of meaningless greetings. “Good morning, baby.” “Did you eat your lunch, baby?” “It’ll be okay tomorrow, baby?”. Your days get lengthy and you hold on to retellings of vain consolations. You think, “It’ll be okay tomorrow, baby.” and they worsen. You choose, yet, to rethink, retype and redelete warnings to preserve some hollow quantity of love. You must be young.

I figure it’s okay to eat meals in silence. It can keep your hands busy, give you something to do. There are hazards of choking as your throat can fill up spaces left in absence of words and form lumps to keep you from crying and yet, you do. You don’t hold back, you don’t know how. You must be young.

So one day, you must be a heathen. You must commit sins of freedom. You must sit with a listener and give them words until you’re not consolable. You must roll in the grass and let moths sit on your knees. When you’re free of a structural romance, you begin to realize how dangerous your love can be. And then one day, in the memory of a young you, you seem old, grown, formidable, ready.

Good morning, baby.