I think he’s worried that if he gives me the keys I will walk into his heart and immediately start redecorating. He has things set up the way he likes and he doesn’t want his posters torn down for wall decals of birds and quotes about love. He knows (it’s happened before) that most people can’t help but want to change things. No matter how much they like the way it looks, they can’t help but get started thinking what if… They have their ideas about how it should look. They want to put in their night tables and their paper lanterns. They want to make your heart theirs.
And when they leave (which they inevitably do, we are all some sort of nomad) they take some parts and leave others and you are left with a half full, cluttered heart. You have to make the long and painful decisions about what belongs there; try to remember what was there before she came. You try to sift out which parts of you she built, and which parts are worth keeping.

What he doesn’t understand about me is that I am not in the habit of making homes. I don’t like too much to stay. A blanket, bed and books are all I need. So he can keep his posters, and hang whatever lights he wants. If I admire the décor its only because I can see the way it lights up his eyes.
So I keep knocking, I keep peeking in the windows. And he keeps stalling, putting things in their right place, worried that if he lets me in I’ll start knocking things down.  And I can’t claim to not be a master of messes. I can’t claim I wont throw my laundry on the floor, and forget to scrub the toilet, and get sugar in the crevices of all the kitchen appliances for some late night cupcakes.
But I am not the type to move furniture. And when I’m gone it will be all yours again, every quiet corner. Maybe just a fingerful of sugar lingering behind a clean coffee mug will remind you that I was ever there at all.

She is the closest I will ever get to meeting myself
Her waist thinner than mine
Like she was pulled out a little longer in the taffy press of life

In another life we would have been best friends
But today I don’t know what her hands mean
Are they stronger than I am?
Is she?
Because she only shares her wildest dreams
And her paper smiles
Are the ones without the scissor nicks

I would like to see the version of her that she only shows herself
I would like to see the mistakes
And the first drafts
Instead of the paper doll
She pretends to be

Because how can a woman who refuses to acknowledge
Her rips and tears
Ever ask for tape?

When I am told that mistakes are beautiful, I laugh
Because they are not.
By definition mistakes are ugly.
Beauty’s name should not be corrupted by that which we regret.
I did not want to kiss him
I did not want to break his heart
I did not want that to be the last time I saw her
I did not want to leave her there.
Mistakes do not give color to life,
They add gray, and dirt, and darkness.
But though they are not beautiful they should not be discarded.
There is a difference between beauty
And that which is worth appreciating.
Without the ugliness we wouldn’t notice
What is gorgeous.
We wouldn’t be able to tell
When we did the exact perfect thing.
And though they are often small, hidden
Amid the endless gray catastrophe of our mistakes
Our perfect moments do come
And they stay with us.

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open.
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong
And you really do have worth…
And you learn and learn…
With every good-bye you learn.

-JLB

If I were to take a Celtic cross
From every casket I have knelt beside
My basement would be very crowded
Even more than it already is.
All this old Catholicism
Is sitting down there, waiting.
For us, God has become a collection,
Reminders that so many are no longer with us.

My family,
They don’t talk about death very often
So I turned to stories.
But the movies and the books,
They don’t show you the hardest parts.
When you miss them every day
When you are sad but it has long passed the time for crying
When your world is softer, less in focus,
The colors less bright.
They don’t tell you how to tell your father that you love him
When you are afraid of making him cry.
They don’t let you know how to call your sister at 1:32am
Asking for her forgiveness, and her apology,
And wishing that the heat of the phone on your ear
Was the heat of her cheek against yours.
Maybe they don’t tell you because we are trying to keep the hardest parts
A secret from ourselves.
Maybe they don’t tell you because you already know.
Maybe we are hoping that the hardest parts will become easier.
Some do get easier.
But some get harder too.
There is a difference between depression and sadness.
I didn’t know that before,
But I know it now.
Depression makes you feel as though you are dying
Sadness makes you feel alive,
Softly, without shouting.
Death has taught me that I can be happy when I am sad.
Death has taught me to love, without fear.
Death has taught me to cry, even when the time has long passed.

I miss you.