On May 5, 2015, you laid your head in my lap at three in the morning and cried for an hour. It has been weeks since my last load of laundry, and longer since I've brushed my hair. Playing the piano, but only to feel my fingertips hit the keys. All you have to do is exist.  No one looks up to stargaze anymore, but I almost crashed my car, craning my neck to catch a glimpse. What does God do when He gets sad? Nothing says "I love you" like forgetting about me. My last breath is nearing. All you have to do is exist. My writing has no structure because that's how it is in my head, only louder. Remember when I showed up at your house and we cried on the floor with your dog (you helped me more than I did you)? Seize the day so hard it snaps. All you have to do is exist. I went to therapy, but all I got was a story about Native American pottery copied onto a piece of wrinkled printer paper. All you have to do is exist.  Please don't become a dentist. All you have to do is exist.  It's just so hard to love when you're not alive inside. All you have to do is exist. All you have to do is exist. All you have to do is exist.