for years i didn't understand.
i wiped my tears on the skin of the back of my hand.
i bent over journals.
and could only ask why
you could somehow wear wings
at those stupid public school
football games.
you stood high in the stands
you could out drum the band.
i'd sit just 10 feet below you
with mom and the girls.
but my toes would keep beat with the wind
that whirled.
through the radio speakers wild and clear
transmitting waves
of your passion i'd pay just to hear.
and i've always had eyes in the back of my head
for the things i knew that i'd die to have missed.
and the way you swayed up there,
war paint on your face
was merely the
start
of
every little fiber
of your existence
somehow gnawing at me
to stomp fear
BE FREE.
with you, like you.
i’ve always cried to.
and that’s what you do.
you don’t let us sit in mud.
your colors run rampant through our minds
til we know that we CAN TOO, let go, be a PART.
of the rush that you’d found that breeds hope
cradles art.
for years i've tried to sketch
with charcoal or paint
the depth in your eyes
they're soft heavy
like rain
sometimes they tilt at the end like
the bow of a sinking
ship
sometimes they're bright like fire
when you've found someone to defend
sometimes they're glazed
and i can literally taste the haze
of all you behold
finding ground, taking shape
into fresh-cut epiphanies
you’ll disclose into the air
and then we’re taken by trains
to lands we wouldn’t have dared.
or we stand in the river
quieted by the sound.
enamored like it’s from mars, but nodding sure of the jewels that you’ve found.
because EVERY time, your eyes,
they're lenses
like telescopes peeling back and away
the mediocre, 2D, paperflat theories
we let pulse our days.
rumination. i learned that word today.
you remind me to follow my wonders to the edge and then off of the cliff.
illumination. your dance makes me want
to demolish the stiff
in my limbs. limes! lemonade stands!
tv tables! cash boxes! we wandered the land.
evolving alongside the warmth of your soul
made me better
wakes me up when my heart starts to grow dull.
it's nights when i'm on my speckled carpet floor.
and sometimes it hurts
but never too much
to just remember more
looking out the window green and gray
looking out the window
purple and white?
looking out the window what a pretty sight.
and if i squint really hard
i can feel that ugly grey cracking leather
of that lovely wretched
van
van
we were travelers together
and for that i may cry
but mostly i’ll just hang a preschool picture of you up by my window and remember
every morning that you’re still my friend til i die.
one day in the old house
you wrote that the air smelled like spring
that you’d go carve a stick
to be inside all it brings.
and that day at ballet
i stood at the barre
ignoring routine. pulled away.
jarred
cause the things that you say
don’t just make noise or fill space
they build towers, wave flags,
invite and compel us to race.
to live, to wake up, they shake us out of our seats.
they make the very moments we’re alive inside,
fall a level deeper into all there really is to see.
you love to read short stories right before bed.
you cry righteous angry defiance in dark temples red.
you glue pennies to the wall with carefree frustrated tender precision.
yea. galaxies lie behind those pennies.
i feel it every day on the way down to the kitchen.
you tell strangers they’re welcome and worthy and great
because their tiny quirks you actually see
in fact, you’re so captivated, you call them out and then, WE see.
you love girls being girly and then we finally believe its okay to be girly.
you read the whole old testament because you know
what is “worth it”.
i would watch through the glass
i would watch on the screen
i would undergo in the flesh
your spirit’s rare fiery strength
and i would not miss an ounce
of who you couldn't help but be
it’s like you can’t help it or hurt it
or leave it or choose it
you just breath in and out
a breath not your own
and we’re all graced by the miracle
wrapped up in your frame.
just like you walked into it the day you were born,
you walk with it, til the day you’re no more.
mama says HE STOOPS LOW to MAKE YOU GREAT
so yea, it’s not you that makes you great.
so chill out
give it up
you really can’t touch it.
just let him do what he does with you
and for the LOVE, don’t loathe it.
when i was 15 i saw you leading thousands up a mountain, banner in hand.
and now it’s nothing but clear to see that
there’s no date in time where you’ll finally lead the crowds with a band.
it’s the force of the who that you are that you can’t help but be
that leads thousands up mountains
with every breath that you breathe
with each day that passes with each stroke of your brush
it’s constant, its “chosen”. it’s holy.
the RUSH.