Little Things and You

I've always enjoyed the little things.

When you live practically alone at such a small age in such a large place you learn to appreciate sitting in the middle of one too big, and far too empty room for hours and hours.

counting how many of the floor boards creak even under the lightest step. And the pattern of expensive crown molding that the baby blue paint chips off of. And the exact shape of the hole in the wall torn up by a hungry mouse.

You learn every room in a house has a soul, a story.

Every flower in a valley of a million was once a seed.

a big forgotten bay window, on the side of a messy room.

Look, Really look.

Past the view, think of the reflection.

Of every story this window has seen.

People fighting with the young milkboy on the corner. Everytime the rain floods the old stone streets.

When the flowers die in the window box in the winter.

Now think harder.

Every dead bee in the creases of the window, that came to give that flower box pollen for the next summer. Every year that window lock grows a bit holder, and struggles to hold back a drafty breeze. Every speck and spot on the window from old stickers or greasy  handprints or dead bugs.

I could spend hours staring at that old drafty window and still notice something new when I come back the next day.

I'd call myself a Philocalist, I saw it in a book once so I'm not too sure what it means, but I notice everything.

Like the way you squint your eyes when you look up at the sun. Or the way your nose twitches when you eat. And your ears wiggle slightly when you speak.

And your calloused hands are always covered in my bright colored bandaids, the neon colors fading from being washed or covered in dirt.

The way you've tried to stop biting your nails but still do when I'm not looking.

The way your hands seek the warmth of my body when your asleep. The way your real laugh sounds when it's just us, and the way you don't bother forcing smiles because I can always see through them and you think there's no reason to pretend for anyone else.

I also see the way you try so hard to be the best for me.

Metanoia is the regret on your face when you barely raise your voice at me.

the way you hesitate to touch me and shy away after we fight.

but I don't need the best, nor do I want it.

I still think flowers are pretty even when they wilt after a week in a pretty glass vase on my kitchen table, even when they start to stink.

I like my fruit a few days old because they're sweeter when they're a bit darker in color, though I still throw the squishy ones away.

I like the way excavated piles of dirt look after rain, even though they make my shoes a bit muddy when I walk by, the print of my shoes on the concrete can be some toddlers next mystery.

I like your face even when you forget to shave after a week and your stubble matures into fine hairs. And I like your room even when it's a bit messy but you never seem to care.

So come with me in my reverie, even though I get foilsick. Let me share my world with you, but don't you dare blink or else you might just miss it.