And just like the November sun goes down and the cold seeps in and wooshes right under the door cracks, so does the sadness. You don't know why or how or where it comes from, but come it does. Creeping in and nesting on your pillow at night. Waiting, like an old sweater whose fuzz has been rubbed off and whose elbows have holes in them and the collar is just a little stretched out. It fits, and you still wear it despite the fact that it doesn't keep you very warm. It fits. And it's familiar, and it's comfortable. It sits there waiting for you to get home and lie down next to it in silence. Like a good friend, it is silent and just listens. Listens to your raspy breath, and beating heart. It Listens to you toss and turn at night. It's comfortable, this sadness. It's comfortable. It's the kind of sadness that slips quietly away when the sun peeks through your curtains and caresses your shoulder. It's the kind that keeps your tears a secret, the kind that waits patiently for its turn. The kind that just takes time.
