Carefully crafted, you were given to me,
on a cold winter night.
And despite the snow,
(numb toes and shaking fingertips)
the universe was in my reach,
and warmth transformed my heart.
My very being was entirely overwhelmed
(with you).
Hot tears were welcome,
as I held you.
Tightly - losing this gift was not an option.
For the feeling was too unusual,
in the most wonderful of ways,
and melodies which were ever familiar to me
had a new meaning,
and were heavily blessed with
sweet, new memories.

Inspired by musical wonders
I write this letter to you,
why shouldn't I?
There are some things vital to know,
and the foremost is the infinite universe
within you.
It's been said a million times, I'm aware.
But a mind such as yours sees these words,
and truly grasps the beautiful concept.
Look within you.
There are streams of flowing water,
roses budding in spring,
the crisp chill of autumn,
and beauty explodes with each drop that falls on your cheeks.
You are even more than this.
Stop.
Imagine what lies beyond our vast universe.
Even a beautiful mind as complex as yours cannot understand this.
And that, my friend, is where your soul lives.
So take your words, your voice, your love;
and shoot it even farther into the unknown.
There is someone that understands.

Rosalie Rose, sweet child,
named for the angels in splendor.
Rosalie Rose, what falls upon your cheeks?
This world is not for you.
The stars are your ancestors, and your closest companions.
Rosalie Rose, rest your head in my arms.
You're safe here.
Rosalie Rose, my darling dear,
let the twinkling bells of my voice soothe you,
and hang your worries upon those celestial beings.
They will not blame you for it, for you are blameless,
and worthy of all love.
And they will hurry away with your fears streaming behind,
and explode soon enough.
Rosalie Rose, sweetest child,
I offer you my all,
until the very day you join the angels in their splendor.

to behold the resounding heights
has broken down his fragile fingers.
to be encompassed by faces of passion,
has drawn passion herself from his eyes.
a weary conductor at the resting point of the masterpiece.

I must speak the truth that no one really enters a museum of art expecting to view empty canvases.

you were my getaway car until I realized I didn't mind getting caught.
until I recognized the excitement,
the thrill of trouble.
and he was my trouble...

it suffocated me.
the inevitability of it all.
and as I lay on the ground gasping -
fighting for life -
you raised not one finger.
though had that been you,
I would have offered my very lungs.