I was given the name Denisse.
I no longer make art or things.
Never in one place for too long.
I solely exist wandering about.
Even if we just walked around your neighborhood and laid on blanket in the grass just a couple hours in the afternoon, I felt so at peace. Golden skin, the scent of fabric softner and Old Spice, those long eye lashes and punny jokes I had been yearning for. Home isn’t necessarily a place it’s a feeling.
I have so much built up inside of me and I can’t handle it. And the more I feel I cannot share about how I really feel (frustration, sadness, annoyance, disappointment) the more I feel inclined to keeping to myself. Although I wish to shout, speaking is such a drag because it isn’t necessarily communicating.
I miss you.