The beauty of sandpaper is that
it makes rough things smooth
and smooth things rough.

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As if with their souls.

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Animals communicate so beautifully,
with their entire body, and not just their words.

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Repeat after me.
I can shun my ego and my desire for power,
Without undermining myself.

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Constantly fluctuating between
Am I too much?
And
Am I enough?

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Every now and then,
I lay in bed and ask myself a redundant question.
I ask myself why you aren't here.

I know why you aren't.
And yet,
every now and then,
I ask it.

I ask to make myself feel a certain kind of pain
that I think I should be feeling.
But because I know the answer,
it never really works.

And yet,
I ask it,
every now and then.

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Everytime I hear this song,
I'm tossed back to my memory of us.
The magic of unfinished conversations,
of a page unturned.
The beauty of the uncertainty,
not knowing if we would shatter or survive.
The lived experience of knowing the end is near,
our ever climaxing song.

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For shouldn't it be the number of fears added to your vocabulary,
instead of the number of years, that tell your age?
Because isn't it funny that my two year old nephew's favorite song is about war, death and destruction
just because it has the words 'Red Balloons' in it.

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When I asked you what came first?
Music or Dance?
You argued it all started with a heartbeat,
I argued it all started with the sway
of the leaf in the wind.

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You don't get in my way,
is probably the highest compliment I can give anybody.

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