If you were here I'd make you a steamy hot milk with your very own belgian chocolate on a stick to swirl yourself a cup of comfort.
We would move to the couch where the light fades just so through the curtains. You with your cocoa, me with my coffee, and I'd ask you 'for reals... how are you doing?'
You'd probably laugh and we'd chat for a while about this or about that and eventually the tables would turn and you would ask the same of me.
And I'd wonder if it was safe to remove my shield of armor and allow the stories that sit behind that wall to spill out into the open. I'd worry about giving them a voice, giving them space, about listening to them become more real as I speak them.
I don't know what that would feel like yet. I know it would feel good to have my chest less tightened up with these tales.
So we would sit, and maybe ... maybe I would crack open the well, and it would all be out in the open. Maybe.
I haven't teetered over that fine line yet.
I'm trying though.













