Tell it.

Telling stories is the only way I know how to make sense of the world around me.  I don't always have some wonderful story to tell. Sometimes when I hike and explore I write my own stories in my head. Stories of the past and stories of the future. I think about the colors before me. What they remind of. I feel the crisp air on my nose and remember. I remember coffee dog park trips. Days of hiking where we could see our breath before us with each step. Pancakes. And Popcorn with milkduds. And sometimes I write out those stories. Sometimes it's the only way I can feel close to my past. As if you reading this is the only memory we have left together now.  It's the only thing still left of us. The only time we spend together. The only way your eyes comb over pieces of me.  I know you still come back here. You'll always come back here. But you'll never admit it. 

You have given me so much pain...and here I am. Making stories of it.