It was 3 o'clock in the morning
and everything hurt.
There were ads for some movie I now vowed never to see
because I saw the freckles on your face in every dot above the "i",
I saw your arms spread eagle
the last time I saw you yelling
in every lower case "t",
I saw myself in every capital and lowercase "P"
because I can't remember
how many sentences I started or ended with "please"
and just in case
I wanted to cover all ground.
Not like spreading myself across the cement
because I don't quite want to jump,
but you were the only rooftop I've ever visited
that I haven't felt the urge to leap off of.

You, with the soft heart and heavy tongue,
you with the debatable blueprints but wonderful execution,
you with the kaleidoscope eyes and binoculars in hand.
I saw the potential of how much I could fall in love with you;
you didn't have to be the building with the most windows,
you didn't have to be that small flower shop
with the butterfly stickers next to the bank,
you didn't have to be the mistletoe
in the middle of a dimly lit street.  
You just had to be the rooftop to show me it was there.

But when the depression hit,
you locked the door
and I was stuck in the stairwell
staring through the windowpane,
trying to remember what the streetlights looked like in the dark
but you were so certain that everything shut off when you did
and you didn't want me to be sad too.
I tried to remind you
that when the sun comes up again,
everything will still be there,
everything will come alive in the morning
you just have to stay intact long enough to see it.
But I couldn't stay awake long enough to stop you from crumbling.

I woke up to rubble,
yellow police tape and detectives,
crowbars prying your locked door open.
I got invested
and now I'm being investigated
and interrogated
and "WERE YOU THE ONE WHO PUT THE BOMBS HERE".
No sir,
I only told him I couldn't stay awake for him.
I didn't mean to make him think
that I would rather be unconscious
than watch him self-destruct,
I just meant I felt comfortable enough
to wait until he opened the door for me again.
But he can't now.

And I can't lock my doors anymore.
"Aren't you afraid of what you'll let in?"
I'm more afraid of what's being let out.
Your ghost follows me around
and is far too large to fit through the dog door,
and I don't want to look at you when you leave.
So I stay right where I am,
sitting on top of my roof
but your cement blocks will never feel the same
as my slate shingles.
I would rather be made rubble by your ruin
than made shelter for someone else.
When I shut down,
the streetlights are still on,
that means the sun will rise
and I with the heavy heart and soft tongue,
I with flawless blueprints but too anxious to start,
I with the color-blind eyes and microscope in pocket,
will try again in the morning
to not look so much like the police lines you left.

Before I start,
I want to warn you that I'm not very good at dealing with this kind of thing.
It's been a while since I've thought about you this much.
I tried talking about you the other day,
it didn't really work out so well, I mean
I haven't talked to you in seven years
and even then I never really knew how to explain you.
With your middle name being Patrick,
I celebrated you like you were a Saint
and the entirety of my days were March 17th.
You were all wind chimes and four leaf clovers,
brand new horseshoes and rabbits feet.
I never told anyone what you meant to me
because I never had to.

I knew that things at home were getting bad for you
and you told me you didn't want to talk about it.
But you should have told me when you stopped sleeping,
because I could see the bags under your eyes
like they were carrying your burdens
instead of your shoulders
instead of me.

I started wondering why your boyfriend stopped hanging out with us
but I knew it was because your parents
were giving you black and blue islands as welcoming gifts
and to be frank, I never liked vacationing
so I didn't want to dive into their oceans.
But you cried so often that I could have.

You said
"If I'm gay, why can't I feel like the rainbows
instead of having to explain them?"
I tried to tell you that not everyone knows what to do with a *** of gold when they find it.
So when your parents kept having to take you to the hospital,
that was the only way they knew how to spend the fortune they found.
They spent those gold bricks
buying you therapists who validated your feelings
but pacified your parents by telling them you were "getting better."

But one morning before school,
the phone rang like church tolls.
And my stomach dropped through the floor
and went six feet past the dirt
like it was digging your grave for you
before we even had a service.

On the other end of the line
a woman's voice was broke in half
trembling out the words
"we found him this morning"
like they were her hands reaching for the rope all over again.

Leo, you know how you said you wouldn't break me?
Well my twelve year old heart,
it had broke.
It spilled on the floor like the metal pieces
in the game of jacks
and the ball kept bouncing
but my hands were too clumsy to know how to pick all of myself back up at once.
All of the nerves in my body were malfunctioning
and I swear to God I think I apologized for breathing
because I felt like I was stealing it from you.
The air was all fire and ice,
dancing in my lungs like Armageddon;
the final battle between my breath and yours
and it seems like you lost
but I never won.

It's been seven years since your death
and I still don't feel properly equipped to deal with it yet.
I still haven't finished the letter you addressed to me
and if i'm being honest I can't even get halfway through without crying
or wishing it was me.
But you started it off with
"I am so sorry for breaking you"
and I never made it to the funeral
because I never told my parents you were dead
I just thought it'd be easier to deal with this alone.
But it's been seven years
and I am alone
and I still don't know how to deal with it yet
because you were my *** of gold
and not everyone knows what to do with one when they find it.

I can't help him when I can't even help myself anymore
Because days have turned into months and I'm just dying to crawl
Out of my skin and out of this world
it's full of sadness and carelessness and misery and doubt
And I had you back for a moment and now you're walking back out
And I can't keep apologizing for stupid little things
And giving people advice when all I need is an embrace
To let me know I am human and that it will all be okay
But I'm sinking in sorrow and the snow just keeps falling
And I can't help but wonder what would happen if I laid down on the ground
And let this white blanket consume me
Would I die and be reborn or
Become absolutely nothing

it's harder, now, to let the thoughts flow
now that i've learned to let the bad parts go
and where the pen meets the page,
it seems that i've finally broken out of the cage
that held me hostage for so long,
another day, another song.

the ocean doesn't call out to me anymore,
to take me away to the void
and maybe I've become this sorry *****,
but almost all those demons, i have destroyed
they lingered in my core
waiting to take over

And they did, for the time being
a past so infinitely profound,
i feel like a blind man, for the first time, truly seeing
all the light around
i am lonely but i am whole,
no longer an empty shell, no longer sorry and cold

no apologies for the people i let down,
because they never would stick around
even after they visit me in a hospital room,
after my impenetrable doom.
the sadness was so engulfing,
and the wounds would not stop pulsing
to remind me of all the souls lying
in the ground, in urns
they were all trying
but can never return
they are angels now
they are found in the clouds,
the sea, the trees
they are living on in you and me.

we all fight different battles,
but in the end we bleed the same.
i remember the love i found back in seattle,
and i'll never forget his name.

First one, should have been the last
but now our love is left in the past
a future that holds a new reality
to keep you in the present, with complete totality.
my lips are cold
my heart is full
of longing for what once was,
but excitement for what will be.

no hurry, no rush,
the words will one day break free.