nothing special


when you’re sitting in traffic and look to your partner in the passenger’s seat and all you see are a stack of journals and few opened fortune cookies sitting on top. the last one you read said, “you’re part of my heart and i love you”. you reach over when the light turns red to reread it. the light turns green and you return it to the stack to meditate on what it is you don’t understand because it’s baffling even to you why you leave the journals there and talk to them each day. you reach your destination and you glance over again feeling sad at how much physical space you’d kept open for him. you know it isn’t the same for him. he’s doing whatever he’s doing without need of you. you try to reconcile being nothing special with all that’s been written and you can’t. you realize none of it was written to or for you. you think you’ve been duped but know no one can be blamed for your ignorance. you try to ignore the yearning, the belief that you’re supposed to be together knowing that if you don’t learn how to your heart will implode. you pull out a sheet a paper and start writing having no goal in mind except finding a way to turn the tears into words that may or may not make sense. you don’t know how your words fall on others but you do know they fall somewhere where they either are or aren’t picked up and examined. part of you resents this and part of you doesn’t. you write publicly in defiance to that part of yourself that turns everything inward. you know that no one in real life knows you or your heart. you know that what you write would shock everyone you love. you know also that it doesn’t shock him. not anymore. you know you’re nothing special but when you glance over at the journals you wish that you were.

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