One: He left unto me a daggers edge, a fine blade crafted where the water ends and the sky need not continue.
Two: He left unto me keys, the notes needed to take apart uncertainty and make certain I was alive.
Three: He left unto me books. Words. Countless tales I could steal and weave into my own until nothing original existed anymore.
Four: He left unto me nightmares from which I could only wish away with a dreamlike fever, heaven knows I tried to drown them out.
Five: He left unto me eyes with which to witness all of life’s beauty. I stayed inside.
Six: He left unto me these hands in order to compose, write, hold and reach. To reach so highly for the stars allows one to grow cold. If only my hands were made of Icarus’ wings.
Seven: He left unto me blood. I bled.
Eight: He left unto me tales of grandeur within which he was a God, a ruler fighting against the chaos of the outside. He gave me bottles filled with hope and sadness and joy and an unending fear of unbalance. I only wished to tip the scales to see if perhaps the ground would crack and volcanos would rise up to burn these stories.
Nine: He left unto me magic, so I could see people’s eyes light up. With sleight of hand and a simple illusion, he fooled death and I.
Ten: He left unto me time. But never enough. The sands strained over countless lands and mountains, travelling and thinning out in order to afford more and more and more and more time. I wait while the clock ticks.
Eleven: He left unto me oceans. My fear of water overshadowed this gift and I drowned, submerged under until the torrent of disaster that I begged for devoured me whole.
Twelve: I left. The cosmos exposed to me. I found one spot between a stars smile and a comets scream. So I went, and waited without him.
