Maybe I just find it easier to be hopeful than happy. Scary, scary happiness—an acquaintance, way less than familiar.
How I wish I can tell you without a strained face and heavy nothingness that I know it by heart, that it’s in me, that I don’t have to try too hard for it to stay. How I wish that I can let you see through the cracks to show lit rooms, but all reveals empty spaces.
I can point you to presence, but it’s part of memory, and both haunt and betray.
All I have is this hope of breaking through. All you have for now is this breaking.
Andeng 