“That there are no random acts. That we are all connected. That you can no more separate one life from another than you can separate a breeze from the wind.”

Eddie shook his head. “We were throwing a ball. It was my stupidity, running out there like that. Why should you have to die on account of me? It ain’t fair.”

The Blue Man held out his hand. “Fairness,” he said, “does not govern life and death. If it did, no good person would ever die young.”

– Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet in Heaven

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Part 1

Like sand you seep straight through the slits

I latch on tightly and still lose grip

Sentences superfluous when loving on borrowed time

Relinquished the stories of how you could be mine

Persuasive persuasion still goes unacknowledged

But pain is pervasive, how am I still astonished?

Still ingenuous thinking your words were genuine

Easily amenable when you say she’s a friend

Sensibility runs free but the love isn’t cheap

A smile belies all the grief that runs deep

“We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under. The first category longs for the look of an infinite number of anonymous eyes, in other words, for the look of the public. The second category is made up of people who have a vital need to be looked at by many known eyes. They are the tireless hosts of cocktail parties and dinners. They are happier than the people in the first category, who, when they lose their public, have the feeling that the lights have gone out in the room of their lives. This happens to nearly all of them sooner or later. People in the second category, on the other hand, can always come up with the eyes they need. Then there is the third category, the category of people who need to be constantly before the eyes of the person they love. Their situation is as dangerous as the situation of people in the first category. One day the eyes of their beloved will close, and the room will go dark. And finally there is the fourth category, the rarest, the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers.”

-Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Between Us

I feel safer by your side than inside of my own head

Making marks on all the pages of the books that you have read

And I’ve been scared to say “I miss you” since I’m the one that left

But months continue to race on and life of laughter is bereft

I took great pride in all my musings that I’d forgotten what you’ve taught

Now I hold the memories dear, hoping they were not for naught

So I replay all the glances, that you couldn’t help but throw

You’re doing better by your lonesome, something I won’t ever know

And I know that I’ve been selfish, that our ship has long since sailed

But the happiness I wished you is the thing I hope prevailed

When someone seeks,” said Siddhartha, “then it easily happens that his eyes see only the thing that he seeks, and he is able to find nothing, to take in nothing because he always thinks only about the thing he is seeking, because he has one goal, because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, having no goal.

-Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

Bliss Point

Can’t shake the feeling of you laying beside me
Scooping my body closer to yours in your lazy stupor

Or of your palm pressed against the small of my back
As we swayed to the sound of the sultry saxophone

Or the smell of sweat and spice in the dimly lit bar
And how we stood out in the rain under cover of cigarette smoke
As I shivered while you spun me
And the wine helped me paint stars in the somber sky

Or when we strolled by the shore, the waves cradling our feet
As I spilled all my secrets that I knew you would keep

And each night I wake with a new story of us
But a dream’s but a dream when you lust for the lost

You took away my drug at the height of the addiction
Pondering the loss of you is now my new affliction
Making lists of times we’ve shared to decipher fact from fiction
Imagining your lips on mine, my favorite form of friction