It Was Your 47th Birthday; Thank God You’re Not Here
You made it
You escaped into the abyss of wellness and completeness. The place where I want to be when I dive into your past and once again find no measure of peace or contentment.
I attacked you when you left and was cursed for it by those who loved you best. The lines of reason were crossed when I obeyed my instinct and tried to reach you.
I needed to find the carcass of your mind at the exact point of contact.
How did mornings that start off foggy and end up stirringly sunny coincide with the sound of a heartbeat that is constantly willed to be stilled.
Thank God, you’re not here.
This blasphemous chorus of praise is a selfish pull towards the unknown, which sounds angelic and superior compared to the timetable that constantly harasses the beddings — that suffocate when the moon tries to break grab you away.
My obsession is a religion when it comes to you, and all that you were, and all that you mean, when the expression on your face dangerously resembles the pricks of my heart.
When you left and I found you — the assurance of how I might overcome the realm of possibilities — captured the tone of my mission when I verbally embraced you — while riding the bus through the streets of awareness and atonement.
The ride is over, and yet, I still breathe the air you rejected five years ago, when I was younger and you were tired.
The burden was shifted to my being, and I’m neither super nor supreme.
I’m itching closer to where you belong and calculating how much longer it will take to surpass the tendencies that bind pain with release.
It’s so surreal to be ensconced under your cold shell and have the audacity to applaud your brilliance above the soaring clouds that continue to rise and dip with acclaim.
You’re not here, but I am still — because your last breath birthed me.