burning

You find your self in unexpected places, clicking links on the Internet. This morning, I read pain. I can see you in two of my own memories: leaning against my counter in the summer and then, months later, chatting with me about jeans and coveting Anthro and J. Crew.  Oh and a third-- pure happiness in singing, all nervousness gone. What I read from you this morning was pure hurt and agony and I sat, mourning. Mourning to the point that I walked swiftly to the restroom, said a prayer of gratitude that it was empty, and cried.

In an instruction list on “how to be a great blogger,” it said to share yourself. To be open and personal with your readers. Even though no one reads this silly ‘ol thing, I can’t (fine, won’t) be that publicly vulnerable. I admired your honesty and wonder if it was therapeutic and helped...or if it hurt worse because the response desired was never received. I won’t know, because you won’t know I read your thoughts and who am I to assume I can reach into your life, to pull even more from your heart. The only thing I wish you knew is that my heart mourned with yours for a moment, and mourned with every cliche-- aching heart; burning eyes; cold, grasping, anxious hands.