My grandpa
             Words he gave
                            To me once upon a full moon
“Son” he said
            “When you go into this life”
“Remember, that love is a language “
             “So find, my son, find someone”
                     “Who speaks your language “
      “So you don’t have to translate your soul”
                                   Hmmm.

Someone once told me that life is just a series of moments,
that the past is merely a story we tell ourselves before we fall asleep.
And so I look at him and I am reminded that I am not who I was a moment ago,
and that I shouldn't try to be.
I fear a reality of fiction and distortion,
where my life is a blurry foreign film and he is the fourth wall,
always broken.
I have written of lovers and their seemingly intangible hands for so long that my concept of time is impressionable,
one might even call it sacrilegious.
I have bled dry every metaphor capable of embodiment that I wonder if it ever meant anything,
I wonder if anything ever will.

I want to write him into a scripture of meaning, of something other than illustrated angish.
I want to write about something that isn't love,
that isn't a thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
I want to write about the way he leads me into rock pools,
like a child being baptized.

I look at him and I am reminded of the ocean,
as if his blood can only move in waves without devotion,
more like instinct.
I want to write about something that isn't love,
because this is more like inspiration.
This is not knowing what could possibly come after his tide falls back.

I am aware that literature always ruins the ending,
that finishing a book mid sentence is the only way to avoid the loss of its final words.
I am aware that beautiful things can never stay,
but maybe that's what makes them beautiful.
He is a picture of my perfect faith,
but he doesn't make me want to believe in religion,
because I know god hates the competition.

For so long I had thought that I was never going to feel anything new,
that I had exceeded the depth of emotions,
like anything that follows can only be a lesser version of something previously felt,
but here I gawk with a mouthful of blasphemous teeth.

I couldn't tell you about the snowstorm he evokes within my chest,
nor the locust plague that raid in his name.
Because this is not a love story,
at least not just yet.
This is a man that has grown roots where I have only planted seeds,
a man that scripts his stories on the soles of his feet.
*And so I look at him,
and I am reminded that I am not who I was a moment ago,
and that I shouldn't try to be.

You never really know how strong you are until you're alone,
crying and forced to pick yourself up off the floor.
That is when you can truly see how big your emotional muscles are
and I promise
they are bigger than you ever thought possible.

i hate you both
dad to me your nothing but a ghost
mom ever since i was 13 i've been crying myself to sleep
you have not once payed attention to me, never even heard me weep

all you've ever noticed are my ***** up
and i know at times i could be corrupt

over and over
reminded my about my failing grades,
which led me to begin bringing out my blade

when i told you (mom) i was depressed
you laughed at me, and said you don't even know anything about stress, how could you be depressed?

and dad what on earth happened to you
you always seem to go insane
never bothering to call
always leave me wondering where you are
you're always sick because of your daily "one too many drinks"
i used to get disappointed
but now i've learned to expect nothing less of you

one. I walked you to your car, and made sure that each part of you was safely seated before i closed the door. once i got in the passengers seat, i told you to buckle up, and when you didnt, i reached over the center console and kissed you as i carefully grabbed your seat belt and strapped you in. you rolled your eyes at me, told me you loved me and grabbed my hand and kissed it. i asked you to keep both hands on the wheel.
two. I put my hands up your shirt and rested my head on your chest when we were laying down, just so i could count your heartbeats. so i could feel your heartbeats and so my head would rise and fall with your ribcage. i ran my fingers through your hair, and whispered alive against your skin. i kissed your collarbone, your chest, your stretch marks. you asked me to stop, you told me you loved me but it tickled. i told you i adored your laugh.
three. I tried to be as close to you as i could. i asked you to come to a haunted house with me, and i let the sound of your laughter fill my ears. i know i get scared easily, that was the point. i gave you directions for the longest way possible so we could spend more time together. i turned on your favorite song, and watched your lips move. when the hum of your voice made its way to my ears, i closed my eyes and let my head lean back. i held your arm through the entire haunted house. i jumped closer to you whenever i heard a sound, i buried my face into the crook of your neck, even when i wasn't scared. you laughed at me for so long, pulling me into you each time you did and told me you loved me. i pressed my ear against your chest and listened to the way it resonated.
four. Sweet dreams
four. i care about you
four. how are you?
four. are you okay?
four. did you get home safe?
four.
five. I didnt yell back. I wiped your tears away when they escaped your eyes, as mine fell and shattered into my lap. i kissed your collarbone, and i pulled myself closer, even when i was shoved away. i squeezed my eyes shut, like if i closed them hard enough, i could unhear that this was my fault. i touched your neck, right under your hairline, and i told you i cared about you. you told me that you couldn't wait for me to say it anymore, that you didn't know if i loved you or not. i told you to drive safe, and i watched you walk away. i saw you put on your seatbelt and look at me. i watched you start the car with tears in your eyes.

Enduring is not the key.
Then what is?

I am so tired
of all this ****,
says everyone.

Yet nobody stands
and leaves from the door.

We all enjoy
the view
of ourselves being eaten
by sadness.