You may not have been birthed in the soil,
and granted,
you will not blossom
when spring melts winters wake
but inside of you
grows a thousand gardens
full of exploding stars.
You are of the earth
and your ashes
have been constructed with stardust,
and set free with the wind.
So you may not have a pretty face,
and your body may hold stories
of too many moonless nights alone.
But if you reach inside,
you will find a forest
for a ribcage
and a restless ocean heart.
So don't ever let anyone tell you
you are nothing.
You are a galaxy
holding a million different planets,
and my dear,
that is not nothing.

Hey Eddie,
       where are you tonight? I'm outside and my body aches. My feet are frozen too. Do you hate my cigarettes? I'm sorry I'm weak sometimes but I think you understand. I still haven't felt you, maybe once on the hill, but I live in Long Beach now. Not close to the hill or your home or our streets. Crazy huh? It's a long way from where I thought we'd end up. Do you remember how much you liked sushi? I had some today. It tasted like the river and the rope swing. I wonder if you would recognize me. I'm a mess Ed, a mess. I'm posting this on some website in hopes that it finds its way to you. I'll write it down too, then burn it over a mountain so the ashes might meet with yours. I don't know. I'm tired, so tired. Hey Eddie, where are you tonight?

By the end of this trace
                I'll forget your name
That's what i say each time
           I get down to take the line




Words Of Harfouchism