All the ways we celebrate, all the ways we comfort, are stretched and warped and worn thin by repetition and distance and resentment.
I don’t want another biscuit, although it was kind of you to send them.
Fizz grows sour on an under-exercised tongue.
We have shared these photos a dozen times already and they no longer have the power to soothe.
Your voice does not match your mouth.
And I don’t want to speak, anyway. I don’t want to have to find things to celebrate.
I only want to be in the same space, feeling the warmth of your body as it minds its own business and allows me to draw close.