it will get easier.
car visor flipped down, mirror flipped open, you check if your eyeliner is running more than normal.
post yesterday's beach day tan fading, you're still feeling more-than-normal-unusual of living in this place called here [sic] home.
driving to a different house and circling the culdesac three times without the courage rising to rise your feet to the entrance, you took a prayer and then took the belief that maybe, it was okay to drive away.
you summon the strength to keep sinking into the new to find it morph into normal but—it's not there yet.
it will get easier.
the wing stop fries now wait for the second (not first) time at the top of three flights of stairs at the second apartment building after the left turn at the first stop sign, a glimmer of easier.
and you sat in anther park, breathing in the deep need of nearness in the now to hold you from the new till the normal, and even there still.
it will get easier.
but it's not yet, yet not not. simpler than you fear, closer than you feel.
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I definitely don't want this to be a monologue. What are your thoughts? Questions? Ideas?