fall returns to the hills with gusto;
and as the wind sweeps in
I realize I am alone,
yet I am far from lonely
for the first autumn in years

I wish it had been you.

You took me today, to the place where you broke your arm. You told me how you were young, your parents on the other side of the park, and how much pain you were in. And you told me you didn't cry. And I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to kiss you and tell you that I know you've endured pain, much beyond a broken bone, but refused to let yourself show how much it hurt you. I wanted to kiss you and tell you that I know how strong you are, even when it's all broken. I wanted to kiss you, I wanted you to be mine, so that you never had to spare tears over broken bones or broken hearts again.

I used to hate the smell of cigarettes because they reminded me of you. And all the bad decisions you had made. They reminded me of the late night calls begging for a rescue. They reminded me of the broken window and bloodstained hand. You were so addicted to the things that lead to your demise. But you've traded your cigarettes and ***** for Christ and a bible. And you've bargained for your forgiveness and prayed for some redemption. But I still hate the smell of cigarettes, because they serve as a reminder of just how easy it is to spark the things we think will give us healing, but end up catching fire and destroy us.

They talk about these dead cells. Shocking them back into life. Making them immortal because every time they slip into nothingness they are brought back. I don't believe that any amount of science could bring you back to me. Not the way you were before. Your cells may return but you never truly will.