Waking Up.

It will be morning soon. this is the first time you've lived away from home. it is always close, the golden of the window. the breathing of the street. you thought you knew a thing about solitude until now. you thought you knew yourself until now. there is a language, and a life between you and the world, it seems. in the loneliest, slowest of times, you find love in every bit between sentences. you suck the tender parts of life and make sure some get stuck between your gums, so you may turn them into art eventually. all your tools, all your hands, all your eyes for writing are worlds away. but you're resourceful. you prod and pull until you find beauty inside the scrawny kid bawling her eyes out in your kitchen table. you stare and think "Behold! Tears! I get to see them again". you scrape wonder out of shared pinterest boards, late calls and half-finished messages. and even now, sorrow is not a resource that seems to run dry. it is divine, ever-present. it is a reminder to look up, to dig deeper. you find sorrow in all you can't feel, all you don't understand, all you search for. so with just enough beauty, and wonder, and sorrow, and... and you sit down. you sit down and write. you sit and build whatever has been inside all along. you build what hasn't. and you stay awake until it's morning, find out what you can steal from it. find out what's outside.