Cold nights these. I love the cold, until it is cold, then I crave the warmth. When the sun comes out like a drag queen on stage, I am praying for rain. Whatever I have, it is something else I want. And this is what unhappiness is made of.

It is December. I wrap myself up and read. I let the cold touch my cheek. I share space at night not with a lover but with an indigo sky that brings its stars to meet me. You do not realise how much you have missed the sky until you stop and look up again.

Pain ebbs now and flows away from me in steady waves that kiss the shore and retreat. It’s gentle, lulling, and constant. The promise of the next wave that reaches the beach to cleanse itself does not disappoint. It will come. It does come. And I feel less hurt. Space opens up inside of me where only yesterday there was stabbing memory, taunting nostalgia, and a soreness that refused to leave.

The great healers are time, and faith and prayer. I am almost shy to pray. Laden with shame, I cannot bring myself to ask for even more forgiveness, more peace, more solutions, more answers, more of everything only to be left haunted inside. I think, when I ask for mercy, do I really believe I am worthy? What kind of god will listen? What kind of god thinks I am deserving of their intercession? I break my promises. I distance myself from worship. I am careless, selfish, and entirely self-serving. Why would god look at me again when even a person would not stay by my side? And yet, this is when you must pray. This is when you must humble yourself to a point of complete surrender.

There is the grace of god, I suppose. God, who cannot be anything like his creation. God, who can only be greater, and show me again and again, that there will be more love. There is love enough for even the likes of me.