Some days are light.
The gleaming warmth diffusing from your insides is almost more palpable than the light spilling over us through the sunroof. It touches me—you touch me—without even moving a finger. We drive for hours. We also drive for minutes: for every small moment that I get to watch your beautiful lips move and say something that makes the earth rethink its orbit; for every word you never forget to voice; for every  game of catch we play with our laughter, and every grin of yours I capture and keep in my pocket. Gracefully the day closes in, and the hues of blue above us cool off and mingle with one another—a slow, galactic tango. We drink an entire pitcher of tea all by ourselves and you let me wear your shirt. It smells like comfort.
Some days are heavy.
We are standing in a field, but we are miles and miles apart. It’s hard to see you, shrouded in a heavy mist of guilt and shame and the micro-shards of other people’s shortcomings that somehow always make their way to you. I wave both arms frantically in an effort to catch the attention of something, someone in the tall dewy grass that call lead me in your direction, or for you to emerge and tell me you’re okay and that you know who you are and that you like who you are, but to no avail. It doesn’t matter what time it is. Days like these pose a challenge because I cannot speak through you, but only to you. There is a thick, cloudy film of words and concepts and feelings racing over your retina, stifling your vision, and it is so prevalent from the outside. I wish so bad that I could just shake it away and light a beautiful roaring fire within you once again.
Living in a state of expectations and of fear, waiting for the next day to weigh you down, must be so incredibly tiring—tiring beyond the point of pain. I can see it in you. The cruel hands of the universe sometimes pull back on the neck of your shirt as you’re trying to walk; we both see it happening, though we like to pretend otherwise. I like to pretend that I can help you through this, but I give myself too much credit. All we can do is quietly hope that things get better for you, because you really deserve it. You deserve light days.