It's one of those moments when
my eyes hurt from crying
with my entire heart and soul
for everything you've done for me

It's of those times when
every thing is important
from the smallest detail
to the deepest thought

It's one of those car ride when
I want time to stop
and allow me the eternity needed
to tell my friends how much I love them

It's one of those group of guys
that know me better than anyone.
Each and every man, I could call upon
at a moment's notice: they would be there

But I hope for more than this,
In the midst of this blissful perfection
I hope this isn't the end,
but the start of a wonderful beginning.

And I hope that this one moment,
this one time, this one car ride,
this one group of guys,
is never forgotten, never left behind.

I hope this all becomes
more than anyone thought possible

I hope this moment becomes a state of mind.
I hope this one time becomes a lifetime.
I hope this one car ride becomes an everlasting roller-coaster.
I hope this group becomes all humanity.

Now we're laughing, now we're crying,
and I believe heaven looks a lot like this.

Now we're called, now we're beckoned,
to bring heaven down to earth,
Time and time again.

If Love is like a River,
I hope one day,
we flow into the Ocean,
merging together as one.

And though we still have questions,
and we all still have problems,
and of course, we're still imperfect,
Hope endures within us all.

For Love is the goal,
the sea we all seek,
and it is a daily decision,
our own personal river.

And right now, the sea
looks so close, but so far away.
But one thing I know for sure,
is the Love in this moment.

Now don't ever let it go.

The brain is a pretty rad little doodad. Sitting atop your neck, buzzing with blood and budding thoughts like an apple tree in spring.
I think it's fascinating that we're still quire clueless as to how it really works.
There's one particular part that still fascinates me, namely, memory.

Memories are the cranial equivalent of keeping a diary or writing in a journal. a collection of feelings and happenings of days gone by and words once said.
There are a few journal entries, if you will, that stand out to me. Ones I made with a girl... let's call her B.

If B were here right now, I'd look her in her big brown eyes and ask her:

Do you remember?

Do you remember the divine way the curves of your body fit into mine was we lay in an amorous embrace amongst the blankets and downy pillows?

Do you remember the way I told you a million times that I loved your hair. Your angelic, graceful hair, even though you thought it was too long and too messy?

How we walked through the forest for hours, talking about nothing and nonsense, and how we sat on a log for what seemed like eternity until I manufactured enough courage to finally kiss you?

They say that elephants never forget, and every time you cross my mind I feel my nose getting a little longer and my skin turning a little greyer.

Do you remember? Because I sure as hell do.

Do you remember how adorable you looked in those pajama pants of mine that were about a foot too long for you because you forgot to bring your own?

Do you remember how we sat on a bench and watched the birds flit from feeder to feeder as the sun waved us a crimson farewell?

Do you remember the feeling of your lips upon my lips, and the simple fact that it is impossible to properly describe that in any banal combination of 26 tired characters?

Do you remember the bittersweet intermingling of the smells of my eighty dollar cologne and your forty dollar shampoo?

Do you remember the way we looked into each other’s eyes? The vast universes of possibilities leaping from neuron to neuron behind those irises?

Wonderful memories. Pleasant memories. You couldn’t ask for anything better than these kind of memories. But there’s more. And there’s a reason why they’re just memories.

I remember the way the blood drained from my face like your used bath water circled the drain in my bathtub, and how my heart went on strike and stopped beating when you told me we couldn’t be together.

I remember how similar the crunch of the leaves and twigs under our booted feet sounded to the cracking and shattering of my sanity as you drove away on that sombre day.

I remember all of the dreams my brain pumped out of its pitiful pineal gland in a futile attempt to travel back in time.

I remember the empty spot in my bed and the gaping and gushing hole in my heart that still exists
To
This
Day.

But for all of these melancholy memories, these rotten ruminations, the beast of anger has yet to rear its matted mane.

In fact,

I thank you.

I thank you for this sadness, this regret, this longing, and this acute absence of rage,

For it is proof that I am alive.

I thank you for this sorrow, for this awful ammunition, for inspiration to machine masterpieces from the melancholy.

For what is light without darkness?

What is life without death, and love without loss?

So thank you.

I look back on our shared seconds not with eyes full of misplaced malice and fury,

But with gratitude.

Because even through tragedy

The heart survives.

The boy you love says, I’m going to **** you.
                  So you let him.
You let him take you home and
          you sit in his room while
                          the heat from his fingertips lingers on the doorknob.
         The steam from the shower
                         curls like smoke into the room
and he wants to swallow you whole,
         so you jump right into his mouth.
                       It’s wet.
                                It’s hot.
                                          You can’t breathe.

                      This is Unbearable.

But you get to be with him
           —in a corner of him—
                       lying on his balcony.
This is what you wanted.
           So these rusty bars that crisscross over his heart,
                      this forgotten half of an apple,
the rawness of your body—
                      you asked for it.

You had booked a ticket to this ****** cave—
                     to breathe in him, with him,
                                 exhale him.
            And now you get to taste him,
                     drink of him, drown in him,
                                die from him.

But you’re waiting for him to turn the shower off,
        turn the sky on,
                  nick away the black and paint it blue again,
        blow a few white clouds into the emptiness.

And you hear him—hands on your handle—turn it off.
                 But the water keeps running.
                                This doesn’t make sense, you say.

The water gushes down the glass pane,
        wets your pain.  
                 Your arteries pump this water.
                        I’m not thirsty, you say.

But the water is still running and
        his chest is thunder, his mouth is granite.
There’s no lightening to light your way out,
                   no way to see the clock.
        This never-ending minute,
                   this hour of forever,
                            the ocean that flows back up into the river.
This is all wrong, you say.
       But he doesn’t hear you
                  because his body is covering yours,
                             crushing yours.
A cracked sternum,
       some water in your lungs,
a little blood in your tears
                 —but it’s okay, because he gave it to you.

And you deserve this, you do…
        to remain here in static acid forever
                       so you don’t forget.

The boy bit my thigh,
              sharpened the left blade of my shoulder,
couldn’t remember my name
             or the warmth of my blood.
But he memorized the place in the river
            where my body was thrown
                      —a stone, some silt,
                                 the scales of a trout.

But even with these, he’s still left

            drenched in his own body.