People are dying today. I'm dressed up because there's a mother saying goodbye right now. There's a daughter saying goodbye right now. There's a best friend saying goodbye right now.
People are crying goodbye right now.
Ropes are collapsing right now. Pills are suffocating lives right now. IV's are running low, right now.
Eyes are covering the earth while they trace the tiles they never want to remember. Rubik's cubes are spinning in endless combinations but the sides just don't match up and it might be too late if they take another wrong spin.
I hope you never watch the white walls and blink back tears because too many triggers happen in the school hallways on his birthday. We're told to celebrate the lives they lived cause they did nothing but give.
and give and give and give and look where God put them. Under the ground to sit with their calcium and the worms they ran away from on rainy days
I wonder what the light feels like, when it's more than the edge of the door letting it through. I wonder, but I hope I never find out.
Hands are holding goodbye right now. They're lacing their fingers back and forth, back and forth, hoping they can catch death on it's way out. Hoping they can convince him he's mixed up the years, he's wrong about the time, there's still sand dropping in the clock.
Do you think death feels the pain in his chest? Like sharp lungs running on icy days. Maybe he cares about each individual drop of memories we let fall from our eyes because that's all sorrow is anyway: memories that can't be made new. Maybe he feels indifferent but I like to believe it's hard on him to watch small eyes and small hands wonder why uncle is giving them extra piggy backs and mommy won't read them a bedtime story.
Lives are living goodbye right now. and then, they're not.
17.3.14
12.3.14
"that sounds unreal i love italian sodas!'
This blog is for you, because I like to write about you best.
You reminded me I feel things, that I have bones that ache and quake and a spine that shivers at your touch.
You reminded me the depth of misunderstanding and the pit of long lost feelings.
You taught me what longing and let downs do in a tight rope conversation.
You know exactly how to show someone that toes and elbow and the back of your knees can feel charcoal smiles and wide open wounds.
Maybe I'm just being dramatic. Maybe I don't care how I sound anymore. You were the best thing that's happened to me since I stepped foot on Lone Peak's campus. You've pulled me out of a lot of dark times and dark things, some you still don't know about. You taught me what the sun and real grass can do for a faltering heart. How stammering and murmuring in your knees just means you're growing. You taught me not to hesitate my confidence or care if someone else cuts me off in traffic. You taught me. You taught me everything and life.
Maybe God gave me you as a teacher because he knew I'd listen.
You reminded me I feel things, that I have bones that ache and quake and a spine that shivers at your touch.
You reminded me the depth of misunderstanding and the pit of long lost feelings.
You taught me what longing and let downs do in a tight rope conversation.
You know exactly how to show someone that toes and elbow and the back of your knees can feel charcoal smiles and wide open wounds.
Maybe I'm just being dramatic. Maybe I don't care how I sound anymore. You were the best thing that's happened to me since I stepped foot on Lone Peak's campus. You've pulled me out of a lot of dark times and dark things, some you still don't know about. You taught me what the sun and real grass can do for a faltering heart. How stammering and murmuring in your knees just means you're growing. You taught me not to hesitate my confidence or care if someone else cuts me off in traffic. You taught me. You taught me everything and life.
Maybe God gave me you as a teacher because he knew I'd listen.
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