Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Words cannot describe my feelings towards you,
Although, hell, I'll certainly try.

I love you.
although, as I used to say so often, "not that way." Purely platonic (as I routinely reassure everyone).
To say you've been a big part of my life is an enormous understatement-
You've been there as long as I can remember.
It's only recently that I've grown to truly appreciate you,
from laughter and jokes via Google in English class
to whispered secrets in orchestra.
You always told me those secrets with a smile on your face, even though
they were impossibly sad.
Why?
Was it because you wanted to look like you were saying something normal?
Or was it because you didn't think you could say it without crying, so you forced yourself to smile?
You saw through me in my darkest hours,
And managed to forgive me time and again.
I owe you so much.
You're beautiful, talented, funny, and strong.
And he  broke  you.
He took your heart.
He cherished it, made you feel important.
And then he shattered it into more pieces than there are stars
(of which you claim to not be good at writing about).
...twice.
And still he ignores you, which requires both arrogance and selfishness at levels so extreme,
Odysseus would tell him to get a grip, and Caesar would be disturbed.
..
And you deserve so much better. I want to remind you of that. He's nothing, he doesn't deserve you and he never will.

To forget you would be a heinous crime,
One I will never be guilty of.
Whether it is tucked away in the expanses of the universe inside my head,
Or stored as ones and zeroes in the conversation records of many a different software, accumulated over the years...
Or in the papers, which you will be in someday, with that kind of writing talent.
How could I possibly forget those chocolate eyes which tell me so much when you tell me so little?
How could I possibly forget those nights in Italy, when everything went to hell and you just couldn't take it?
How could I possibly forget these memories that you've left me? Some of my favorites?
How could I possibly forget you? You beautiful, talented, special, powerful, selfless, kind, funny girl?
I will miss you more than anyone else.
And I will remember you.
When my new dark hours come, I will remember what you have told me.
I promised you, after all. And I keep my promises.



*Especially yours.

I am indebted to you, truly. For being there when nobody else cared.
For dozens upon dozens of nights filled with suffering, loss, tears, and blood.
For being my go-to listener. For teaching me to help myself and love myself.

Of course, you originally listened. And that's what I needed.
But things got worse. And then you finally told me that it's not enough. I need to actively help myself.
Naturally, I didn't listen although I should have.
It took 3 weeks of no contact for me to realize how ******* RIGHT you were. Of course you were. You always were. And still are.
Of course, I tried to help you too. I was a good ear (even though mine aren't), and over the years we've built a friendship specifically designed to last, if not the rest of our lives, then a VERY long time.
We know each other. But I especially feel privileged.
To have known someone as talented, beautiful, caring, funny, helpful, supportive, independent, and intelligent as you (although you don't really think you're that last one).
Our relationship was more electronic than anything.
For the past three years, I've disliked that more than anything else about our relationship.
But reflecting on it...maybe it was right.
Perhaps it was the only way it would work. We were in only partially connected social groups, and our personalities weren't really well designed for a more face-to-face relationship that I've developed with others.
Looking back on it..I don't think I would have had it any other way.
I cannot thank you enough. I really, truly can't. So I won't bother to try. I will look forward, and only forward, as you've taught me to do.
Because it does get better. We'd both know. We've seen each other grow out of our problems, laugh at them, and then deal with the new ones. Finally, we've reached a point where we're both happy.

Isn't it splendid?
While I will definitely miss seeing you (because hell if I don't find you really attractive), I won't miss you nearly as much as I will miss others.
With others, we talk about how we'll stay in touch, but rarely do we actually do so.
With you, I know I'll keep talking to you. Our relationship will continue to grow, and my departure is perfectly timed-our relationship has reached a level of trust that cannot go much higher (if it did, it'd kinda get really weird and awkward and personal).

So I view this as a bump in the road more than anything else. Our friendship will continue.
And I will remember you. I will remember you as you grow to chase your dreams that seemed light years away but are now in our atmosphere. And with your head in the clouds, it will be comparatively easy.
In short, I love you. I will miss you. I will never forget you.
And I will look forward to a lifetime of correspondence.

One.
She said it was gonna be tough

I didn't know it was going to be 1am still awake kind of tough

I thought I would be old enough now, strong enough now to stand up straight and on my own but I've never been on my own like that.
We were in this together from the beginning but he always ****** at keeping promises, and keeping it together.
And I always wanted to fix everything.
But we weren't broken, we began unassembled and we were to naive to even glance at the instructions so we put together this unbalanced time bomb of a thing, called it us. Called it trust, called it innocence. Calling it everything but the truth until we started calling each other out on our mistakes.
it just hurts man, it hurts like not being able to breathe, like being punched, it just hurts like I didn't think it could
I don't want to cry about him anymore, it all just hurts

                                                      
Two.
It snows heavy and it snows quiet here

The light leaves this sleepy little town without a trace, without even the smallest of goodbyes to hold on to.

How heavy are these burdens that we carry on our shoulders through hallways, into classrooms
we crumple and fold our heartbreak and failure between textbooks and notebooks and pencils

I have lost myself in more places than I have lost hairbands
There is no cheat sheet at the bottom of my book bag for this kind of broken

I play music loud these days, I put on headphones at 1 am so I can forget every angle of him
I don't want to think of him anymore, he has run me dry

                                                     

Three­. I wake up every morning hung over from the times I kissed him in my dreams
                                                     

Fou­r. And then come the nights when I think about him like crazy
These are moments I cannot escape. Nights where I lie awake.

                                                     

Five. It is an unnerving cycle of my heart wanting so bad to put it all into words, and my mind thinking he doesn't deserve them.

                                                     

Six­. The distance between the reality I want and the reality I have is so great that when standing between them equally, it is impossible to tell which is the lesser evil.

In one month, I have been lucky enough to breathe far from the small town  sometimes hesitate to call home

In Rome, the street lamps were endless and oozed romance like handsome strangers serenading in front of restaurants, and my name bouncing off all those brick walls, even the alleys begged my glance for just a little bit longer

On the nights where the rain beating against the brick walls blended in with our sleepy chaos, I could see myself crumbling into every corner of this country. I could melt into the rain, and ******* did I ever want to.

And I think I left my heart somewhere between the crumble of Pompeii to the rooftops of Sorrento, maybe somewhere on the cobblestone of Orvietto or the puddles of Rome , on the bridges of Florence, between all those hushed conversations, maybe while all held on to each other, honestly at this point I can't say I care to remember.

Now south where it taste like home, and this altitude high swings my hips like nothing else I've ever known, I walk with the rhythm of my family's stories on these very streets, and I like the bit of grown I've only but tasted. And this all too latin warmth could swallow me up if I let it.


And I just might let it.

the*                                                             ­        must
     angel                                                          ­      love
          of                                      ­                             the
                wind                                     ­                       sky

                                   ­                          __        
____---------------------                   --------------------

for when                                                     so does the rain
       the wind dances                                          so do the leaves
           so do the clouds                                            and so does the air


the                                                                  for
  angel                                                               win­d's
   of                                                                  ­ path
     wind                                                             winds­
    must                                                              and
   love                                                               twi­sts
  infinity                                                              forever

-------------__-----------------------------­------------------

The angel of wind?                                             I hope she is happy
                            she must be violent             up in the sky
         for tornadoes                                                twisti­ng and churning
                               and cyclones                      I hope the life she brings
     do the earth                                                     through windswept seeds
                             lay bare.                               Grows in her heart.


-----------____--------------------­-------_-_



                                   the angel of wind is one of redemption
--

First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter.
I'm probably not fighting it.
It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade.

Second, keep my death off the internet.
Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions.
Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long.

Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot.
You are not to allow this.
A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving.

Not permitted at the funeral:
Gerber daisies
poetry
blue jeans
any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.")

Encouraged at the funeral:
Hugs - everyone must hug
lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?)
And make sure they bury me in the blue dress.

Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring,
make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building,
or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade,
or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason.

Remember me as I was.