subject line: i'm awake now.


The faded orange tent

I thought you were talking in your sleep. But then I heard you turn you lighter on, the butane creating a flame that wouldn’t flicker for long. Everything else was dark. You must have thought was asleep. I wasn’t asleep. I just didn’t turn my body around to face you. You scrunch your eyes when you smoke, as if you want everything to become more blurry than it already is. Life is spinning too fast and I know it makes you dizzy. You’ve said that before.

And then I hear you say, “It’s okay”.

There’s no one else in here. You think I’m sleeping. And for a split second I think you’re crazy for speaking to the trees that wrap around our faded orange tent.

But now I know that you were talking to yourself:
“It’s gonna be okay.”

Because maybe saying it louder will make it more believable. Maybe if you hear it, even if it’s from your own mouth, you’ll start to think that it could be true. You exhaled. I wanted to reaffirm the fact that it was going to be okay. But I didn’t want you to know that i was awake, that I could hear your vulnerability. I wanted to plant my feet right then and there, explore your mind, explore the parts of you that you wanted to be okay. I never knew anything was wrong.

I’m sorry for assuming that you were okay. I’m sorry that you had to tell yourself that you were okay. I’m sorry that you had to wait until I was supposedly asleep for you to audibly attempt to convince yourself that things will get better. If I could say anything to you right now, it would be that I’m sorry and that I hope things are okay like you told yourself they would be. I’ll never sit in silence like that again. I’m awake now.