I saw a child playing.
He was alone, in a huge field.
His arms extended, too far
away to hear.
I'll bet he was making airplane
sounds.

I found a note you left me.
It was scribbled on the back
of some old notes, for
something I was sure
I was going to write.
The missive was short.
Just long enough to
say you loved me.

I stand alone on my post.
Twelve hour shifts.
I would like to be sleeping.
I would like to be home.
But there are so many
bills to pay.
There is so much to do.

I was told that what I had been through.
The k through 12 of the
****** thing was meant to
prepare me.
That college too was just
the short version of
the real world.
Except no one has any fun
in the real world.
I feel under prepared.

I find myself alone.
In a big empty field.
There are cars passing,
little arguments from the
back seat.
Little glimpses of other
people's life.
I extend my arms, and run
in tight circles.
I'm too far away to hear,
but rest assured.
I'm making airplane sounds.

The pain is all at once sharp and subtle.
Something you can work with,
but not use.
There is no advantage to this.
The hour hand seems frozen
in place.
Time has given up.
It has finally surrendered.

This moment stands triumphant.
You are witness to the
Second Victorious.

There are thousands of other
moments that would have been
better.
Moments of small bliss.
The warmth of a lover,
her weight beside you in bed.
The accomplishment of a job,
finished and well done.

The arm hangs flaccid.
The elbow at an odd angle.
There is no break, just the
dull fire sensation of a shoulder
ripped out of joint, yet again.
The pain that you've learned to ignore.

It is just this one moment,
this five block walk to where
you know in your stomach that
you need to be.

There is no way to make it.
There is only the quiet comfort
of defeat, and the joy of
the coming darkness.

The knot in your stomach turns.
The tears work their way, protested
against, from your eyes.

Ignore it.

Don't give him the pleasure
of defeating you.

You can hear the complaints from
the farther rooms.
The pain is intense, like
waves of light cracking up
just under the eyelid.
Snakes made of fire crisscrossing
in your lungs and under your skin.

Happy birthday, you think.
It's bitter.
You're bitter.
It's cold outside.

The doctors come in,
the same questions,
the same tired lies.
They can feel the truth,
because it bubbles in the back
of your throat.
You're free for the telling,
but fear of the man is more
than a compelling enough
argument.

One break, eight fractures.
They show you the parallel bars.
It's here that you will come
to feel like a human being again.
You can't help but feel that
they should be taller.
This place should teach you to
stand taller.
Walk taller.

Fear rules the small world
you call home.
The nurses know it more
than the doctors. Some
of them lived it, others
have just seen enough to
know the warning signs.
You are not a warning sign.

You're a billboard.

The complaints drift to you.
Back aches, sports injuries, cancer.
The small, black spot inside yourself
that you know is a coward,
it cries out.
How I wish I were you.

Is it senseless when the young die?
Is it without purpose?
Were they unable to live a life
of meaning just because they
had so little time here?

I have seen them lost, all around
me for a very long time.
13. 14. 15. 15. 16. 17. 17. 17. 18. 23. 23. 60. 64. 64.
Were you able to live lives full of
purpose? Were you able to
prove to us that you swept
this broken world into dizzying
thrill while you were here?

If I could ask, would you tell me
that you regretted it?
That you only wanted just a little
more time. We wanted that
for you as well. With all our
hearts.

Were your last thoughts profound?
I'd like to think that they weren't.
No one seems to understand the comfort
I get in the idea that the last thought
to cross your mind would be
a mundane one.
Would Spider-man be able to beat G.I. Joe?
Is there something wrong with my CD player?
I like swiss cheese, I don't care what they say about it.

I am comforted by your humanity.
Big and small.
I hope your last thoughts were small.
I hope that when your light went
out, so early in your day,
that you weren't plagued by
questions unanswered.
I think you made an impact.
I don't want to think your deaths
were senseless.

How could any reasonable
person not live in fear
of the moment when,
swaddled in blankets,
their child opens their eyes
for the first time?
Who could want that?
And why?
It is a kind of madness.

I have seen what a father is,
what they do, or don't.
I have seen the ones that
want to be a friend,
the ones that have given up,
and the ones that respond
with violence.
I have seen the violence above all.

Tell me how I am supposed
to look at this world,
this broken, horrible *******
world that we were handed by
the irresponsible
Me generation before us,
and see a place where I
would want my children to grow,
to live to breathe and to learn.
This place doesn't dream,
it only sleeps.

And we are so many, and
there is so little.
Room, food, money,
joy.
The quantities are all out of sorts.
My god it's a nightmare.
It's unthinkable.
It's a ******* of nature.

But sometimes, through the
polished glass door, I see my reflection
super imposed on your face,
and I think, we would
make such wonderful children.
You would make such a wonderful Mom.
It is a kind of madness.

With a single sentence
he sent them to their deaths.
He knew what it was,
he knew what it meant.
He now understood
the ruthlessness of war,
the sacrifice of victory.

There was a time when he was normal.
Just a kid, like we have
all been at some time or
another. Gazing into the sky,
envying the birds their flight.
Dreaming of a future he had
absolutely no reference for.
He had no perspective.
He would be young forever.
Wouldn't we all?

The burden on his shoulders
was too massive to control.
Most days he would sink in it.
Wallow in that place
between dreams.
He couldn't be touched there.
He couldn't be asked to
decide. He was free
from that horrible
responsibility.

But it would be back.
It always was. They would
look to him, as their world
fell apart, and he was expected
to have the answers.
To have the resolve.
He was expected to order
his friends into danger,
to order them into eternal
silence. And it was accepted
that his word was law.

He had made so many mistakes.
So many ******* mistakes.
He had failed to see the bigger
picture. He had failed to
see the end coming.
It was here now. And what terrified
him the most wasn't the battle,
wasn't the fear, wasn't
the impending doom.
It was the quiet acknowledgment.
The smooth, calm
smile on his face.

It was the end of everything,
and he was ready for it.

A predictable motion,
my body into yours.
It's beautiful,
in it's circus act
kind of way.
The way you wince,
so slightly,
and even then,
only for a second.
The way you grasp,
my hand or my wrist,
and lean into me,
when your time
arrives.
As if you were afraid.
Standing on the cliff,
looking down,
and shaking with
fear.
Hold onto me,
I will not let go.
Roll into me,
like waves on your
beach,
like static lines
on our Television.
Gently, ever so gently,
I'll loosen my grip,
and you will loosen yours.
We will plunge together.
But we will not let go.