I see your little little ways
Of letting me know
You're still listening,
That you're still there...
And it hurts just as much
it's too late. but not a moment sooner because
each time she doesn't sleep by midnight, neither
do I. each morning she doesn't get up on time,
we rush pell-mell to school only to be late, each
time I lose something she gives me and she says
it's fine even though I know that she knows
that I know she's hurt each time.
but each time that happens, this happens:
I remember what day she will go away, and
God, that puts me back where this all began.
back when she made me Ribena even though
it was her favourite drink too and it was the
last few drops of cordial. back when she told
all the jokes. back when she used to be my role
model, my fold-out bed, my fall-back-you'd
-better-catch-me. back when I told myself
all I need to be is just like her. but, look,
those dreams got old fast, and now all I want
to do is either punch her in the face or say I'm
sorry. those ideals never matched up with the
reality of how human she
we don't have
all the answers.
the difference between
a semi-colon and a full
taking joy in the silliest things like
standing with our arms mouth eyes
wide open in a thunderstorm and
having exactly the same line-length
for each line.
appreciating everything is the key to
finding meaning, staying happy and
the contentment that comes from reading a really good book
for the whole afternoon, taking our time to savour each page.
[emb]racing change and ending up on top.
being okay with simply being.
giving everyone respect before
they do anything to deserve it.
the feeling we get when we give love away.
keeping all promises,
forgetting all grudges.
still so young.
never will be
what the fuck was i thinking.
we eat breakfast silently, side-by-side, looking out over a cliff that drops three feet beyond our window. I don't turn around when I say today is the day.
I run on.
I run away.
I run amok.
I run out of time.
I spent most of my time liking boys with names I hated and who knew how to pronounce complicated words like "adolescent" and "zeitgeist" and "cadence". in my mind, we would be the type that read e. e. cummings and pause at all the linebreaks, the kind that didn't like to exercise. we would hold hands and watch the world burn if it would make a good poem.
but you. you won't read poetry when it doesn't rhyme. you'd try convincing me to get out sometimes, explaining the concepts behind words like "metabolism" and "caloric counts" to persuade me from my writing table. you will be the one to change the world, and I want to be there when it happens.
"you talk very fast," you say instead of I'll never catch everything