“I almost thanked you for
teaching me something about survival
but then I remembered
that the ocean never
handed me the gift of swimming.
I gave it to myself.”—Y.Z, what I forgot to remember (via thegirlwiththelittlecurl)
“We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero’s shoulders and the
gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence,
but despite the abundance of it.”—Richard Siken (via owenselliots)
My friend once told me
she liked this guy because of his hands
And I found it absurd that anyone
would develop feelings over one feature,
and not care about the rest
It wasn’t until you used your hands
to cup the back of my neck the first time we kissed
and I could feel your firm grasp pull me closer,
and my insides exploded
and my head buzzed with bliss.
And the first night you slept over,
you fell asleep with your hand
laid over my stomach
and your fingers felt like a fire
that I didn’t mind burning my skin.
The first time we got drunk,
was the first time you played with my hair,
and my god I was hooked,
I’d drink forever if it meant you’d never stop.
And in public you’d hold my hand,
and rub your thumb in little circles
that left me wanting you more,
no matter what you would never let me go,
I was glued to you,
and I honestly didn’t mind
When we talked about breaking up,
you saw my lips quiver with fear,
and you brushed over my lips with your fingers
before pulling me into your lap
and you kissed me like never before.
With your hands on my hips
pulling me so close to you,
leaving no space in between us.
It was then I realized I never wanted you to go
Its now that,
I finally understand why hands
were the only feature that mattered
We are vessels.
We are rooms.
We are so much less important than the things inside of us.
We are circuit boards
swallowing the electricity of life upon birth.
It wheels through us creating every moment,
the pulse of a story, the soft hums of labor and love.
In our last moment it will come rushing
from our chests and be given back to the wind.
When we die. We go everywhere.
Newton said energy is neither created nor destroyed.
In the halls of my middle school I can still hear
my friend Stephen singing his favorite song.
In the gymnasium I can still hear
the way he dribbled that basketball like it was a mallet
and the earth was a xylophone.
With an ear to the Atlantic I can hear
the Titanic’s band playing her to sleep,
Music. Wind. Music. Wind.
If you listen to the wind and don’t hear a thousand years of music, you’re not listening hard enough.
The day my grandfather passed away there was the strongest wind,
I could feel his gentle hands blowing away from me.
I knew then they were off to find someone
who needed them more than I did.
On average 1.8 people on earth die every second.
There is always a gust of wind somewhere.
The day Stephen was murdered
everything that made us love him rushed from his knife wounds
as though his chest were an auditorium
his life an audience leaving single file.
Every ounce of him has been
wrapping around this world in a windstorm
I have been looking for him for 9 years.
Our bodies are nothing more than hosts to a collection of brilliant things.
When someone dies I do not weep over polaroids or belongings,
I begin to look for the lightning that has left them,
I feel out the strongest breeze and take off running.
After 9 years I found Stephen.
I passed a basketball court in Boston
the point guard dribbled like he had a stadium roaring in his palms
Wilt Chamberlain pumping in his feet,
his hands flashing like x-rays,
a cross-over, a wrap-around
rewinding, turn-tables cracking open,
camera-men turn flash bulbs to fireworks.
Seven games and he never missed a shot,
his hands were luminous.
I asked him how long he’d been playing,
he said nine 9 years
The theory of six degrees of separation
was never meant to show how many people we can find,
it was a set of directions for how to find the people we have lost.
I found your voice Stephen,
found it in a young boy in Michigan who was always singing,
his lungs flapping like sails
I found your smile in Australia,
a young girls teeth shining like the opera house in your neck,
I saw your one true love come to life on the asphalt of Boston.
We are not created or destroyed,
we are constantly transferred, shifted and renewed.
Everything we are is given to us.
Death does not come when a body is too exhausted to live
Death comes, because the brilliance inside us can only be contained for so long.
We do not die. We pass on, pass on the lightning burning through our throats.
when you leave me I will not cry for you
I will run into the strongest wind I can find
and welcome you home.
“…because people who talk about their dreams are actually trying to tell you things about themselves they’d never admit in normal conversation. It’s a way for people to be honest without telling the truth.”—Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story (via aestheticintrovert)