You peered up at me with curious eyes and asked me how I was feeling.
I smiled automatically, like I always did, a reflex action that my bones recognized, for I have done it as long as I remembered.
I said, "I don't know. I think I'm okay. Or maybe not."
"How do you not know how you feel?" Words laced thick with amusement and thinly veiled sarcasm.
I sighed, "It's complicated."
You scoffed a little, as if you'd expected me to avoid answering. But then your eyes softened, and you looked at me as if you understood. Not much, but enough for your voice to sound warmer and your gaze to lose their usual steel.
"Isn't everything?"
― Conversations with assholes who turn out to be nice guys, S.M.
YOU ARE READING
Acedia
Poesia[ A c e d i a : ennui ; state of torpor or listlessness ; spiritual apathy ] Poetry attempts / Random thoughts / Musings (P.S. I'm not very good at this, don't expect too much. Thanks)
