he strums
the steel strings
of his guitar
akin to the strings
of my heart
     that I wear on my sleeve

he echoes
quiet unspoken
memories
through a
loud medley of
melodies
     that his heart and soul bleed

so in time
for him
I'll voice and play
to reach out
and give back
to him someday
     like how he reached out to me

You hold me down
so I won't drown
or drift so far away.

I'm tied to you
like the stars to the moon;
like curious to everyday.

A survivor's raft:
will not capsize
but will stay dry
because I'm safe with you on sea.

An anchor:
does not sink a boat;
it keeps it afloat
—that's what you are to me.

Eighteen―no,
Age is just a number.
Like the page number of a book, her story, her life;
It doesn't matter.
The ending doesn't matter.
The beginning doesn't either.

I read her in chapters, in scenes, in words:
she lives in each and every one.
She is not merely the main character,
she is the plot herself.
And I picture her in my head,
Through mundane moments, rocky cliffs, twisty plots;
She endures.

I don't want to reach or read the ending.
I want to keep reading,
keep browsing through the pages of her.
I want her
to keep writing.
To keep living.

She was so hung up on the moon
that she forgot it disappeared sometimes
and every time they would remind her
to which she would reply
"he's still there
quiet but aware
and i'm still here
waiting, unafraid"

but young one
do you not see the light?
the ever glow of the morn
that causes you to stir
and awaken from your slumber
that shines on you
that you may live one more day

the moon may define the day with its orbit
but it can never be called the day
without the sun

then i thought of you
reaching me
a pale glow
held by slender hands
morning's breath
of dew and dont's
in leaving me alone
and leaving me lonely
looking up at you
is only what i can do

the prophets and all the grownups were right
when they said that 17 was a beautiful age.
it is the age of falling in love,
when we are still young enough to hang onto a thread
but old enough to know better.
17 is being on the verge of entering
into the dreaded age of responsibility,
but wanting something more
than what this youth permits.
17 is a transitional time,
when the heart may know not its place
but what it beats for.
17 is a strange time
of learning and growing and being,
and i suppose we will all always be
who we were at seventeen.