We’re not good at promises you and me.
Not good at them at all.
Promises are fragile things, glass domes that break without bending, but we make them anyway.
We make them even though we are the bulls in the china shop, we are the destructive ones with hands that are bulky and gloved and covered in grease.
Promises just slip through our fingers.
But we still make them, we pull out our words.
We love to talk, and we use words like blankets of sea-reassurance, saying things we’d like to be capable of but are not.
We’re not good at promises, but we make them all the time, we make them everyday. We’re the ones in the background making assumptions and talking about feelings that we have yet to have or possibly will never have.
Because you can’t feel something you cannot touch, and our hands haven’t been built for things like that.