his life was admirable.
you could tell what he wanted in life and what he wanted was so bold he couldn't quite reach it,
just as he could not reach the top shelf at the age of 6 years old.

at 6 years old he was adventurous and curious.
realizing that he could climb on his kitchen counter and take whatever he needed from the top shelf which he would do as he pleased.



at 17 years old he reached for my heart on the top shelf.
at 17 years old he climbed on the counter of my soul and took my heart.
which he did as he pleased.


at 17 years old i left my heart on the bottom shelf in reach.
so easily taken and put back but always missing something when returned.



at 17 years old my heart was left on his top shelf.



at 17 years old my heart was left to be stabbed by the other hearts which were taken and returned in time.


at 17 years old, my kitchen was empty.

why is it that when I have found happiness,
my urge to write begins to cease?
and as I stare at the crease between your eyebrows I wonder if perhaps the reason thunder trails so far behind lightning isn’t a matter of science
but instead, hesitation, as if this sort of happiness is noncompliant in which its outcome is simply consequential, but I doubt one second of my day is spent doing anything less than adoring that crease, i need not express the happiness you bring me through the lines of a poem but instead through the storm of emotions that constantly rise and fall, yet all in all, not once have I hesitated.  
the happiness you bring me never falters.
I have yet to witness that thunder.