I'm bad with dates and names and numbers
But I know the color of your eyes matches the sky in the middle of June before the rainstorm hits Florida
And I know that your skin is the same shade of tawny as the deck on the porch of my mother's best friend's vacation home back in Michigan
And I know that your hair is just as soft as the kittens I pet in the shelter where I cried because I had to pick only just one
And I can pick your scent out of a lineup of boys with every single variation of Axe body spray spread among them
So I can't remember the day we met, or the name of your grandmother or the number of times we have kissed or held hands
But I am a writer, and the essence of your life will never die as long as I have a pen and a paper

Bravery
is not about standing tall
after you've climbed up
the top of a mountain

Bravery
is looking
fear
heartache
rejection
terror
loss
death
in the eye
and saying, "no
not today"

Bravery
is standing back up
after you've been brought down
to your knees