I Don't Think About You Anymore, But I Don't Think About You Anyless

If I was guaranteed eventual happiness, I could handle this.

If I knew that in a year, a decade, a month that I would be content and purposeful, I could wait for my tea to boil with a smile on my face.

I could erase the mistakes on my math homework instead of crossing them out. I could take the stairs instead of the elevator and smile at people who I didn't understand.

And I could write. Really write. Not just broken snippets of my wrinkled mind, but real and beautiful words. I could sing in public and wear dresses and learn the ukulele.

All I need is to know that it will get better. Someday.