will - rough draft
i was writing him a letter and when
i was done i thought about it for
a while, about dying. lying there.
so i started writing again text i had
always wanted to write for some
reason, always planning in my head
where things would scatter too, the
music that would be playing and the
tree beside me, the roots
intertwining with the remainder of
what i was. always viewing the
future as if it were the past,
feeling nostalgic about things
that haven't happened yet. never
making a decision without seeing
it branching off two consequences
ahead. still writing, like initials
etched and kept inside a crooked
heart in an attempt to stick around
even after you're not here anymore
wondering if people's hearts are
like the tree's bark, able to be
carved to display a fear of being
forgotten... as if memories can
really die when souls go on, as if
any part of us remaing in this world
is more significant than the effect
we'll have on the world once we
leave it. knowing that i won't care
one thing about what i'm writing
after i die and beneath it all
wondering if he'll be with me when
we're both dead, whenever that is,
just another blip on the timeline.
no one notices one star blinking
out, or appearing for the first
time. will it make a difference
writing it out? has it been waiting
for me to finish it before pulling
me aside? i haven't seen him
outside of my own imagination for
months now and i write the same
thing over and over until i sounded
right and this odd interjection
stumbles upon the minutes i'm idle
and fishing for something to distract
me from certain impending anxieties
and it's funny how more people are
wanting to distract themselves from
something that is my own distraction
from a love letter. will i ever make
sense of myself? how is it that two
uncommon people will collide in a
way that seems to stand out from
anything they've experienced before
and then proceed to whiplash the
other way. in such a short life is
there anything to be said about an
experience with another person the
likes of which few people come upon?
and still wherever we are i'm sure
there's a way. there's a will in
my handwriting there's a letter for
you in the mail and wherever we are
i'm sure we'll blink out together the
same time a new baby takes its first
breath.
i was done i thought about it for
a while, about dying. lying there.
so i started writing again text i had
always wanted to write for some
reason, always planning in my head
where things would scatter too, the
music that would be playing and the
tree beside me, the roots
intertwining with the remainder of
what i was. always viewing the
future as if it were the past,
feeling nostalgic about things
that haven't happened yet. never
making a decision without seeing
it branching off two consequences
ahead. still writing, like initials
etched and kept inside a crooked
heart in an attempt to stick around
even after you're not here anymore
wondering if people's hearts are
like the tree's bark, able to be
carved to display a fear of being
forgotten... as if memories can
really die when souls go on, as if
any part of us remaing in this world
is more significant than the effect
we'll have on the world once we
leave it. knowing that i won't care
one thing about what i'm writing
after i die and beneath it all
wondering if he'll be with me when
we're both dead, whenever that is,
just another blip on the timeline.
no one notices one star blinking
out, or appearing for the first
time. will it make a difference
writing it out? has it been waiting
for me to finish it before pulling
me aside? i haven't seen him
outside of my own imagination for
months now and i write the same
thing over and over until i sounded
right and this odd interjection
stumbles upon the minutes i'm idle
and fishing for something to distract
me from certain impending anxieties
and it's funny how more people are
wanting to distract themselves from
something that is my own distraction
from a love letter. will i ever make
sense of myself? how is it that two
uncommon people will collide in a
way that seems to stand out from
anything they've experienced before
and then proceed to whiplash the
other way. in such a short life is
there anything to be said about an
experience with another person the
likes of which few people come upon?
and still wherever we are i'm sure
there's a way. there's a will in
my handwriting there's a letter for
you in the mail and wherever we are
i'm sure we'll blink out together the
same time a new baby takes its first
breath.