The worn in places

I have a fondness for broken-in things.

Weathered floors.

Rickety bridges. Rutted trails.

Torn sweatshirts.

The smell of wood stoves.

Dog-eared pages of books.

Coffee that’s so hot it burns your tongue.

Hugs where you can bury your head and inhale and remember where you are.

Maybe I have a fondness for the things that feel worn in because I am just like them in a way: Not slick. Imperfect. Dented and dinged and still here.

Weather and worn just means something has lasted longer than anyone thought it would. I love thinking about all the feet that have run on paths before mine. And how they all left a mark in some way.

The more worn in, the more beautiful to me.

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