Skin and Bones.

It seems the square of foam you sleep on at night is equivalent to the amount of time you wish to dedicate to mediocrity.
I can't say I blame you.
We talked about black and white, and grey and green.
I could revel in the disappointment of those far gone; you could step ahead and look for a fresh opportunity or two.

It's strange to me that I find the strangest places to be extensions of my own home.
But in those few hours on the couch and sprawled across the floor-I knew myself.
I didn't even have to know you.
Cobwebs and outdated patters; silence at all the wrong times; two people with degrees and diplomas and As and Bs--and not a single conclusion, not even a bit of understanding as to what the hell we were supposed to do with life.

I have difficulty explaining why I act in the ways my mind and heart both despise.
Tears will well up, every time, as I explain them; the past; all of the reasons there is so much more to worry about.
They will fall down my cheeks as I selfishly admit the words are all for myself, and more often than not, useless to everyone else.
But what else do I have?

Unfortunately, I judge too quickly.
More fortunately, I don't ever fully make up my mind.
Something about you, about that night-changed me.
Not completely, and not noticeably, but innately, I suppose.

You asked for nothing more than my skin and bones.
And a soothing voice.
And an open heart.

All of which I've had before; all of which I've given; and most of which has been left out on the sidewalk in the pouring rain when things come crashing down.
But the drive home convinced me to let go.
Of something.
Sometime.

And to give, even when everything I have is soggy and less than perfect.
I could just give myself, you said.

Do you really think that one day, that will be enough?