You seemed to be made of glass.
One single touch, and shards of you would fall at my feet.
I remember how you thought you were transparent, fragile mass.
Even your appearance was lonely and obsolete.

I wanted to fix you,
and make you feel whole again.
To hold together your shattered pieces and make them brand new.
Though, I knew you would crack every now and then.

But like old, damaged glass never again to be sought,
You concealed yourself in the corner of a room.
Feeling too unstable to be around people who are not,
Your brittle bones continue to crumble inside your tomb.

When I glance in the mirror, I too, see demolition
I recognize the hollow face as “broken.”
I see the decaying smile due to years of repetition
Of being silent, invisible, unspoken.

I think it’s beautiful that I find you in myself
Oh, how you were decomposing,
How you were experiencing hell.
Now, I find my eyes subconsciously closing.

There are fractured remnants of you that I have found piercing through my own skin,
Any blood that has remained of you has been found in my veins.
Because you realized that in fact, nothing about yourself was shatterproof within.
And now, the only physical residue that I see of you is the reflection of my own pain.

I can feel the blood dripping from my palms to my arms
Because I’ve been carrying fragments of you that I have found in me.
As though enduring through the turbulence of self-harm,
It feels as if I am being washed away at sea.

My being is still lingering around the thought of you.
Wandering around the absent, dim light that used to refract through your eyes.
Wondering if you knew that I am broken, too.
My splintering heart has been translucent to your lies.

Yet under the surface,
I sense every single emotion that used to fulfill your soul.
And now a part of me is pondering if it is ever worth it,
And another fraction of me is wanting to feel whole.

And now, as I stare at the manifestation of you that is me,
I am afraid that I will follow your trail of shattered pieces you have left,
I am terrified that the weight of you will crush me slowly,
I am petrified that the ghost of you will leave me suppressed.

Because I can discern your cries echoing through my ears at night,
I can feel the shivering of your voice when I speak.
I hold in your longing-- that is now mine-- for my hands to shake from left to right
As I am too inhibited and meek.

I can perceive the fear that you used to possess.
The prospects of your vulnerability are scratching at the interior of my lungs,
And it’s killing me, I must confess.
Your agonizing whispers are spoken through my tongue.

But even with your broken remains lying heavy on my shoulders,
I will transform your fragility into competence.
Even with the burden of you, I will regain my composure.
I will alter your doubts into confidence.

Still, no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to ignore you.
Because you surround my thoughts like a picture frame.
Because your jagged pieces have scarred me like a tattoo.
Because trying to forget you is like trying to forget my own name.

I hated Dawkins a little less when his words came from your mouth.

Your unabashed sincerity endeared me to you from the moment you showed me your vintage Atari. I don't recall if that was before or after you bragged about your Star Trek DVDs. Not that it matters, but I hope you've found a place to store all of those wires protruding out of your gadgets like Medusa's head of snakes.

My family liked you, especially my mother. It was probably your staunch advocacy of 4th amendment rights.

Remember those nights we sat in bed and traded secrets on small scraps of paper? We were lovers  for... five weeks by then? It struck me by the third slip that it didn't matter what it would say--I knew I'd still love you anyway. But I knew that from the moment you removed my knee-high boots and kissed my feet when I rode up on my Harley. You unstrapped my helmet and poured me wine. Though we promised to never tell anyone, I just wanted to say: I still smile when I think of your 15-year-old self trying to pick up a ******* on a desolate dusty road. Do you still have those hastily-written pieces of paper? They're yours to keep; I hope they're safe.

Nothing of my new world reminds me of you. There's no Jeopardy to watch, no NPR to hear in your white Saturn, and no desert mountains to hike. Not in India. Maybe it's because nothing is similar that my memories of us stay so firmly imprinted in my mind. Similarities would only erode my recollections. Maybe that's why I almost forgot about the chai tea I'd serve you in bed, coupled with almonds and apricots on the saucer.

But you, you're a walking encyclopedia of my home town. You knew every cactus-lined freeway, the name of the state attorney general, and the best place to grab a Four Peaks beer. Because of this, I could never extricate my love of home and my love for you. To me, you'll always be home.

For better or for worse, I remember it all. Including the soft piano rift of the chess game we'd play on your XBox. I'm guessing you'd beat me, should we play again today. I still have the wooden chess set I got you for your birthday... but we both know I can't give it to you. I'm sorry.

I never believed in saving people before I met you. Before, damaged was a weakness; now I think you just needed a polish. I never told you, but I read your psych evaluation--I found it when I was cleaning your room (with your permission, I add). The therapist was right: you're not aloof, just too smart for the room. I thank God that you never bought that container of nitric oxide.

I know we said we'd marry if I ever came back home. A no-frills city hall marriage suited us just fine. I have no doubt we would have had a simple, sweet life. You would've relented to letting me get a dog to keep your arrogant cat company. Our biggest fight would be over which castle door the RPG character should open, and you would've helped me improve my golf swing on the inexpensive dilapidated course near my old junior high school.

But likewise... our biggest adventure would've been only a roadtrip to the neighboring county. And I wanted to explore. I needed to explore. You, who never wanted to stray outside of a 100-mile radius could never satiate that curiosity. But I know we could have made it work. I know we would've been happy.

Sometimes I wish we could be the best of friends. I know we can't; not when I started dating my now-husband so close after we ended things in tear-stained emails when I went overseas. He swore off her; I swore off you. That's the way things go, I guess, when you get older.

I know it might seem like I've moved on and forgotten you.

Moved on, yes. Forgotten? Never.

It probably wouldn't be the same if we met again. I have too much love for you that could never be conveyed. My love for you has changed; it's not romantic. But it's still this throbbing appreciation for everything you are. I couldn't bear guarded chit chat. Not with you.

And I hope you are happy. Have you realized your worth yet, or are you still wasting your time with broken high school grads who listen to Ke$ha? I can't tell you who to love... but I hope she's an astrophysicist, someone who loves Carl Sagan even half as much as you. I want her to read Noam Chomsky to you late at night, and wake you in the mornings with a glass of milk and cookies. She'll prefer simple mashed potatoes to dim sum, and have a weakness for microbreweries. She'd be gorgeous in that bookish sort of way. Yes. That's the girl for you.

....I'm sorry it's not me, my dear atheist.

I realized that even if you'd ever hurt me,
I'd still love you.

Even if you left black and blue bruises on my body,
I would still allow your lips to linger there.

Even if you left scars on my skin,
I'd still smile at the mirror knowing it was you who marked me as yours.

Even if your hands were around my neck,
I'd still wear your name around it.

Even if you beat the breath out of my lungs,
I'd still use the remaining air to whisper out your name.

Even if you ripped my heart out of my chest,
It would still beat for you.

He was as sad as a flower without color--
Terribly drained, couldn’t be saved without another.
Inside, he felt as if he was dying.
On the outside, he was crying.

But even the tears of a pale boy couldn’t strain the feelings I had for him.
And although his hair needed a trim,
With eyes as dark as the bottom of the sea,
He was still beautiful to me.

His weary talk, his slow walk,
The way he would never mock
a person so different.
Oh, his heart was so vibrant.

You see, his soul was brighter than light.
But in his head, he emerged a fight
with himself.
Indulged with thoughts of guilt.

But he didn’t deserve that hell.
And of course, only I knew that well.
He didn’t think he was worth it.
But to me, he was perfect.