Bubble

What does it matter as long as its soft sides are caressing away the harmful truths and the thunderstorms cannot reach you anymore? Why should anyone begrudge a wink, a whisper, a quiet tune? I was literally a different person then, and my granite was not erased away. I did not see. I did not know.

But not so now. You floated in again and I glimpsed in my heart the right thing to do. Pulling out all the pink crepe paper and sugar to fly through the snow globe, I twirl with you as I always should have done. It is beautiful and if I didn’t have attachments to the outside world, I think I would stay here. I might linger in the beds, your hammocks tied to the wall so a tropical breeze can never shake them away. I’d embrace the woolen love and never let it go. I would subsist on the succulent fruits that hang from the coat trees by which you light your way. The dogs would run and you would laugh an honest, happy sound for the first time in your life. Yes, I would make my home here. With you.

But, it isn’t my bubble, after all.

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