Sometimes after it storms the days are dark and cold
And the nights are endless.
These days the sun wants nothing more than to shine
But he’s so frozen with fear that once he does
It will rain again.
Because maybe next time the rain will destroy him once and for all
Maybe he’ll never get to shine again
And he’ll be lost like a piece of driftwood in the sea.
But in the darkness he doesn't look forward
Doesn't read the signs in front of him that say
It will all be alright.
Because even a piece of driftwood lost in a sea of storms and troubles
A simple piece of broken, soaked, and destroyed driftwood.
A fragment of a once great tree that shaded and grew and provided life
That was torn apart by the same storm the sun fears now.
Can become the reason someone lived another day.
And though he lives in fear, though he does not look ahead and realize these things
The sun shines on.

Breathe.
In and out. In and out.
And let the tide wash over you.
You cannot:
Run away.
Go backwards.
Regret.
Or take back.
You can only breathe
And wait.
Until the tide washes over you.
Until the wind stops blowing.
Until the rain stops pouring.
You can only close your eyes.
You can only breathe.

You want her skin to be like the light from stars shining miles away
In a sky you know nothing of
And her eyes to be gray like storm clouds.
You want her heart to be unexplored
So the map is yours to chart, the land yours to claim, and the life yours to take.
You want her harmony.
You want her voice to be the sounds of a hummingbirds wings,
Sweet like wine on a cool April night
And yet tender like the January wind.
You want the moon.
But the moon is not mine to give away.

More often than you would expect
But far less often than I'd like
I find myself in the company of the hands of time.
Each frequently infrequent encounter he tells me stories that are otherwise uninteresting and uneventful
But with him they are incomparable
And the passing of time goes far too quickly.
He doesn't realize who he is.
And I cannot be the one to tell him
That he controls the months and weeks and days with his voice.
And it's up to him how many seconds have passed since the beginning and until the end.
So I just sit and listen and laugh
and smile and cry
One becomes five, and five becomes four.
And on and on time flies.
Saying nothing, or saying little.
I'm afraid I'll ruin his magic.
Time will not speed up for me, nor will it slow down.
Only for him.
And only in his company.

One day not far in the future
I'll remember how I have grown
Fondly I'll walk through the tragedies
and the heartbreak that have shown
That some people cannot be made good,
Their cuts and scrapes are too deep.
Scars have formed on their hearts
Desperately inching towards sleep.
I'll pray for the brightest smiles.
I'll think of those laughing the most.
They're the ones desperate for love.
They're the ones living as ghosts.
I'll tell my children and grandchildren
That not every smile is warm;
Not every hand is worth holding
Some showers are often a storm.
Steer clear of those with hatred.
Never mistake them for misunderstood.
Grudges spread war and unhappiness.
From them I have learned nothing good.
I'll tell them what my mother told me
And what I've learned over time.
When you're trapped in the valley of shadows
Think nothing other than climb.

Everyone always told him life was beautiful
No one said why, though. Nonetheless he knew it.
They, all of them, all of you, were preaching to the choir.
He could tell you a million and one reasons why life, the earth, everything
Was beautiful.
He knew them now by heart.
He'd start with the sunshine hitting his skin in the summers, and somehow move onto the rain in June on his windshield.
Then to the way the cold flirted with him in December...
Nibbling on his ears and kissing his cheeks whenever and wherever he went.
He'd talk about smiles from strangers on the tram, at the market,
And, his personal favorite, in the library.
There he'd read words from rebellious souls who, like him, understand that life was more beautiful than anything or anyone that came out of Italy, Brazil, or Spain.
They'd say, and he'd read, about how life was beautiful in the way that a child with a gap between her teeth is beautiful.
In the most perfectly flawed way.
Life is beautiful because of the way a clock chimes every 15 minutes, and the way everyone depends on it.
It's beautiful because of the sound a pencil makes as it vandalizes a blank page of a journal.
It's because of the way everyone knows it, and falls madly in love with it.
He knew it, but they didn't. And they never would.
They just told him that life was beautiful.
Over and over and over again until he was sure he didn't deserve to live in that light.
And he ran away from it into the arms of tragedy.
Still beautiful, but all the more flawless and terrifying.
And there he went, and there he stayed.