Tell me a story.
Tell me about something that makes you want to get out of bed in the morning - be it her face, the sky, the voice that tells you to keep going when your limbs want to stay put.
Tell me why life is worth living for, why the sun is yellow, why there are no such things as right answers or wrong questions.
Tell me what it feels like to let him slip through your fingers time and time again, like sand in an hourglass, like rain on a window, like bodies falling off of cliffs.
There is something about Nat King Cole that makes me want to cry.
Maybe his voice reminds me of a feeling I don't remember, but it might just be the fact that he's dead and all good things have to die sometimes, and what if death isn't a great adventure after all - what if death is like the waiting room at the DMV, or like sitting in Saturday afternoon rush-hour traffic? What then?
Our bones will still crack and our hearts will still shrivel up like raisins and our organs will still be harvested like summer fruit when our lids decide to fall.
So thanks for nothing, Nat. thanks for the cockroaches and the dirt and the coffins hidden behind your sweet melodies and glossy smile.
I keep writing things down, things that mean everything and nothing, things that scream of light and dark and all of the scoured corners of whatever this is, if this is anything at all, if it ever was. Maybe it wasn't, but I am not the judge. I don't make decisions.
I just rip things apart and let you put them back together if you so choose.
(It makes no difference. The sun will still rise in the morning.)
Sure, I am a creature of the night, of microchips and puzzle pieces, of forgotten keys and shoelaces, of caves and infinite closets - but you and me, I and you, us, we... there is something that will tie us together, something we haven't even discovered yet, something that lives beneath our skin, something we will spend the rest of our lives looking for, only to find that we knew what it was all along.
We've always known.
But we'll still burn every bridge we've ever crossed because it's what we do best;
It's all we can do.
It's all we've done.
There is no reason for this, but is there ever a real reason for leaving?
We can't figure it out, not now, not ever -
But until never comes, my hand will keep telling my heart things it may or may not mean and you'll keep watch over both because
It's all you can do.
It's all you've done.