It’s been what feels like forever
since I let myself believe
that you’re not just a trickster
or an apathetic monster.
I don’t know who or what you are anymore
and it really doesn’t bother me right now
because the details are irrelevant
when presented with that old familiar feeling,
which right now,
is the only thing I need.
You’re not saying anything,
and it never occurred to me
just how nice that could be.
I give you hell all the time
for remaining so silent,
and when you do speak,
you give me bad advice and riddles.
I don’t care about all that right now,
as I’m too broken for the anger.
All I care about
is that right now
you are here
dwelling with me in my pain,
sitting with me in the sadness,
holding me with acceptance.
This is enough.