It's only winter, right? she says, unwilling to order a drink, unwilling to take her coat off and commit to the bar. The bartender already gave you your drink for free, a strange friendship built in the ashes of what burned from under you. You forget sometimes to be grateful, it seems the worst sort of indulgence, how dare you be blind to these jewels when they're given.
It's only illness, right? you whisper to yourself in the stillness, less question and more plea. Years and years of the same desperate wish mumbled into the night sky, and still every time I sit at the bottom of the well I think no, but this time it really is just that everything is meaningless. A tyrant king sets your country on fire, and you wonder if this isn't the right time to finish writing your book.
Every road leads you back to your writings, after all, every tumble into the well, every mountain peak scaled, the only beacon that has never extinguished is your devotion to creative twirls. You forget, sometimes, in the deluge of daily monotony, but it does not forget you.
That's why you know no better love than its unconditional, reliable, existence. Why you know no other love, at all.
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