so what
if my life has been strung together
on a string of Alex's songs

fingers picking rhythms into the air
vibrating me into the next chapter
melodies carrying me on
until I forget.

all the happiest memories
and heaviest hearts
lie there in those moments
on the string of Alex's songs

voice drifting to chords
and from chords
silently knocking down walls
until we are all one
in the same.

from fifteen they've carried me
like lullabies and battle cries,
on on on,
onto the next tightrope I walk

bare feet balancing on a thread,
as a I wander forward
on the string that strings together
my life in Alex's songs

I'm not the fan of birthdays.
With them comes wrapping paper,
confetti, and cake...
and reminders of daunting ideas pushed aside.

Reminders of all the things I have yet to do,
and the terrifying idea that I am not immortal.
I will not last forever, here.

I am sculpting myself into a person,
of which I am only partially fond.
And with each passing hour, day and year,
I am reminded of the quickly hardening clay
of this sculpture that is me.

My hands rush to pick up the pace,
as I solidify  before my eyes.
My work becomes sloppy,
my hands become ragged,
my movements--
previously so natural and unconscious--
become frantic and desperate
as I become increasingly aware of my potential
slowly falling away,
with each missed moment.,
each birthday candle,
each tick of a clock.

So here I am on the floor.
Looking up at my  sculpture.
Face, hands, hair covered in drying clay.
I am left not with the question can I do it,
no,
simply will I do it?

Will I allow myself to be that change,
to make my mark,
to empower, create, and grow.
Will I let myself me powerful beyond measure?

So,
happiest birthday to this little soul,
so small and fragile.
With so much to give,
and so much to take.
And with only so many breaths left,
to get it all done.

Marching off into the night
with blankets wrapped around backs,
we are huddled close for love,
for warmth.

Sprawling out on the ground,
we all turn our gaze up, up and away.
Giggles slowly die out
as Your immensity unfolds,
as twinkling stars fill our eyes
and cold night air drips into our lungs...
making it's way to our souls.

Wake up.

Conversations flow from stars to planets,
to galaxies beyond galaxies beyond galaxies,
and suddenly I am so small.

...and You are so big,
and I am terrified,
and overwhelmed,
and comforted.

sun's rays kissing
drooping eyelids
creating islands of softness
in thoughts.
curls smelling like honeyed coffee,
freckles dancing
to the warmth.

reality
is the trickiest of things,
of which we will always be confused,
and contemplating,
and afraid of.
wanting to master,
to be content with,
to control.

but here,
minds are quieted
by sun's rays,
drooping eyelids,
and honeyed coffee.

whatever the truth may be,
lashes love the rays,
lips love the taste.
here on a soft island,
dipping toes into
reality's pool,
is just about right.

At night, the moon creeps over the horizon.
The world goes to sleep,
and my demons awake,
haunting me, taunting me, poking at me.

But, with the rising sun,
comes each cliché that we rely so much on:
the promise of a new day,
and the clear thoughts of a night's rest.
Suddenly, life is fresh again.
And you shake your head and smile
when thinking of your demons,
now so small and irrelevant in the sunlight.

The problem starts when,
the darkness of the night
starts oozing into the
light of the day.
The problem starts when,
the sun's sanity,
on which you relied so much,
suddenly seems so weak.

...

and then you're sinking
and the sun becomes blurry
and your world grows murky,
and you can't breath.

But there in the depths
stood a candle.
And while the darkness
becomes indistinguishable from itself,
the light fights on.
So soft, so sweet.
And the wax weeps down, down, down
giving it's warmth to the darkness.

And suddenly the world seems so bright.

It feels good
to have my heart broken again
(well that's an exaggeration)
my heart has never been broken--
maybe bumped or bruised--
but never broken.

It feels good
to have a bruised heart.
It reminds me that I'm still here,
my heart is still in there,
and I am a human.

It feels good
to have a hurting heart.
It forces you to ask why,
to grow and learn,
to become better,
stronger,
to learn to be worthy of love.
So that someday, maybe,
you'll be able to hold someone else's
bumped, bruised, beating heart.

It feels good
to have a heart,
and know that even when it hurts,
I am innately
(whether I like it or not)
a loving, caring, being.

I remember,
pedaling faster than my heartbeat could carry me,
wheels spinning on the axis,
flying up and down hills,
Tangled hair whipped, beaming 'til my eyes closed shut

...

and I was free.
Speeding through my imagination,
through grassy parks,
over and under galaxies,
teleporting from planet to planet,
jumping from street to street

...

Fears smeared behind me like blurry water colors,
my soul lifted my cheeks up into a smile,
as the wind pushed my worries away.