And I’m staring at this mouldy ceiling, wondering whether any story will start outside of the room. The paint was ripping and the dust was settling in but you found art in all of the flaws, made meaning from all of its brokenness. I wonder whether that was why you saw something in me, because when you found me, you saw how I could be put together.
Maybe that was why I kept you near. Maybe that was why when time came, you didn’t leave like Winter but you left like a spring.