White Turns to Gray

I thought I had it figured out. My thoughts on True Love and the ridiculousness of the concept. There's no such thing as the one. There are many. We fall in and out of love. Lovers come and go. But with or without these people, we still live love. Because Love is something within, and beyond us. We can never reduce it to a person.

That's until I spent the last 2 hours listening to Bilal with a friend. We sat in the car, by the train tracks to chill (like we do every time I'm in town visiting), and we listened to A Love for Sale. Letting the album play over again. Both of us in our own world, negotiating situations. Or trying not to. The music surged through me, melting my skin into itself.

I had heard this album so many times before. I didn't understand why it was having this affect on me now. Maybe my heart had been too open lately. I sat there intoxicated by Bilal's falsettos, his beautiful screams, my insides twisting into themselves. I was overwhelmed by a sense of wanting. And I tried not to think about someone. An unexpected. (Un)welcomed. Circumstance. A new breath. Miles away from me. Promise of a beginning. But what about the promise to myself. To not trip all over the place. To not smash my face into pavement. To not fall hard.

what if I can't undo this?
circumstance. love.
but I need this breath
more than he knows.


(Dammit Bilal. Your music affects me.)