Art by Amber Liang

with a lonesome sentence,

I come undone:

art doesn’t have to be sad.

it doesn’t.

but I think good art comes from something that pulls.

I am very sad, Ryan.

as sad as you are to hear it.

therefore, I can make something real.

I can be happy.

you tell me—

    you shouldn’t make yourself sad to make better art.

I tell you—

    I can’t make myself happy.

happiness, I think, is actually quite simple.

maybe that’s why I can never seem to figure it out.

misery is a long emotion,

it’s a receipt, 

it’s limescale build-up on the kettle,

the overhead light blinding me in the morning,

the way a single peach can be so intimate,

kind,

like seeing someone’s handwriting for the first time.

your handwriting is small,

tender.

like the light above the stove

as I watch you amble from window to window,

watching the rain.

I love you so much.

it’s a cool summer evening, 5:13 pm, January 30th.

we are 24.

the year is 25.

your shoulders, a bridge over bad days.

your eyes, not a place to be lost—

but a map.

I am finding myself.

I keep this to myself.

I write.

I can make something real.