You have a stack of books piled up on your bedside; Ink and words and meaning. Yet you're on your own. You're everything you never wanted to be and I'm sorry. I keep thinking it's somehow my fault. Maybe if I had loved you a little, forgiven you a little, glorified you a little, and protected you a lot, none of this would've happened. You close your blinds and look away, pretending that the world outside doesn't scare you a bit. So you get up and walk tall, and slip on another lie. I'm okay or am I?
Rise, do rise. The sky will always allure but gravity will always pull you back to its embrace and keep you from flying. And may I say that your hair is less deranged now yet still smells like chaos from a distance?
Dance, do dance. You know the song of loss and life by heart, don't you? You know the words and oh how they slip away from your tongue with every stranger your soul entirely grasps.
If I had met you in a dream I wouldn't dare wake up. You're ripe and life ascends within you. You're raw and your eyes are the farthest thing from a shelter.
Please understand that I am still not out of reasons to love you; that you're not easy to give up on. It's just that life makes us weary and we still have got so much to learn, but my god are we running out of time, and my god are we running out of love, and my fucking god are we too unholy to abstain.
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