well okay so
apparently you're never going to see these
because you deleted the app off your phone and
so i would like to formally say goodbye to all of our conversations
like i know this is really silly
but just seeing that i was talking to you made me so happy.
it's like you're this constant ray of love in my life
(even though i know you don't love me) and i just always loved reading our old conversations, they make me happy
but now you're off to boarding school and
as much as you might say you'll keep in contact i know you won't;
it's inevitable.  so i figure, why let all of our old conversations lay there
as if they matter that much anymore to you,
why taunt myself with them?
even if they made me happy sometimes it's better to
let go of things before they destroy you. so i will.
and hopefully we can still have more conversations in the future,
when you're signing books in Barnes' and Nobles
and you glance up to ask who to make this out to
(make it out to Heather Leather by the way if you can still remember what it means)  and you see me, maybe then
we'll talk to each other in an old cafe and catch up on life.
although i doubt this will ever happen,
I like to dream about these things;
they make me happy when i feel scared or alone.
but until then, until we meet in barnes' and nobles' and
go to central park for coffee; i guess this is goodbye to all our late-night conversations and endless lines of poems and songs.
i have loved you in a friends-way, in a not-so-friends way and in a i-don't-know-what-this-is-but-it-makes-me-happy kind of way. and while i don't like to talk about loving people in the future, i will say this
if there is one person that has ever aggravated me so much it is you,
and if there's ever a person i will regret not knowing in the future,
it is also you. and if i end up being a good person in the future
(which i hope i will be) know that it is highly possible that
i will love you because you have made me a better person, a better poet, and perhaps most importantly, a happier person.
so i guess this wasn't a goodbye to only our old conversations,
maybe it was also a goodbye to the past you and me,
and while this isn't the last time i will talk to you in a long time
(can't get rid of me that easily)
this will probably be the last time that i
read our old late night conversations about food and poetry
and songs and how much you love Lana del Rey and how i
am obsessed with 5 seconds of summer
and so goodbye to that,
it was good while it lasted,
and hopefully we will create many more late night conversations
but until then, goodbye to the jokes we laughed at,
the homework we cried over, and the music we argued about
yours truly,
heather

p.s. i love you to the moon and back
p.p.s: it was an honor having my heart broken by you

In the ocean of my sadness
Almost driven to madness
I've been diving deep beneath
‘Twas getting hard to breathe
But your anchor I have found
And came back safe and sound

After all, there was no treasure
Almost crushed by the pressure
At the verge of detonation
From above came salvation
Someone sailing 'round my sea
While watching out for me

From chaos I’ve been freed
Just in my time of need
All my wounds ceased to bleed

Back in the light of day
As in the grass I lay
I greet the sun’s first ray


*Drowning Deep Down Despair by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

~

her tears flow easily
on the shoreline,
with each swell
their bitter rise;
she weeps between
the crashing waves,
carried...
with the ripping tide,
sobbing...
with each heaving crest.
’tis on these rocks
her heart was torn,
her thirsty soul
here cries unquenched,
clinging to
this coast forlorn...
this churning,
salty brine,
where nothing
stills the beating,
not the bleeding
of her heart,
though her blood
has all run dry;
nor the cracked rib
’neath her breast,
though its piercing shards
erase her cries.

i lie here weeping
’tween these lines,
her nightly tears
and sleepless sighs,
white-capped sheets
her stormy bed,
churning shoulders,
tossing head;
for hope seems lost
when hope is best
an ocean’s grave,
a watery rest.
life's minutes counted
’til they’re gone
will only cease
their restless throes
when heaven’s gates
o'ercome her foes.

~

post script.

*her smile... ’tis a thin veil o'er a razor's edge
that conceals a mother’s bleeding heart

the month of his birth
and the month of his departure...
despite the twenty-five years between,
follow in such close succession.  
like a Holy Week all her own,
each step, each word, each task,
each i-remember-where-i-was-
when-i-heard-the-news,
relived in painful remembrance.
Lent... Holy Week... the Easter season...
with all its rich and meaningful traditions,
now includes our breaking bread and
drinking wine in our heartfelt
communion of his memory and
helps us to better understand
the heart of our loving Father above