heavenswolf

You are my sleepless nights and warm Decembers. You are the stuffed lion gathering dust on my top shelf. The book never read, the poem never written, the vanilla scented candle and the pencil I lost but always found again. You are "hey there" and "so long," the extra spoon of sugar in my morning coffee, the moth in my bedroom that I left alone. You are the yes after the maybe, the awkward hug, the pajama bottoms two sizes too big, the "I don't know how to put it"s, a full day of movie watching, and the one time I ran away after crying at school. You are a rough cheek, the scent of fresh laundry, warm hands. You

There's a concise stream of tears falling down out of your eyes and you concisely wipe them off with a neatly folded knife. And I don't know how to help because my throat is dry and closed and your talks of death and harm and pain keep me forever on my toes. But there's nothing that I do or say or tell with softly spoken words that can heal or help you with your softly hidden shoved off hurt. But I know the pain you're going through and how it makes you lose your mind and though you're aching for a change there's nothing there that makes it fine. So I just sit still as a stone and so I sit and hear and listen to the sorrows