Put me in the sky...

Heartbeat, slow and low,

moving like a shadow flow.

Every step, every breath,

pulls me deeper in your chest.

We don't need a reason why,

no tomorrow, just tonight.

If we fall, let it be,

you're the only place I need.

I feel like the last one left...

A piece of writing comes to life, when I can feel it, when it talks to me and starts raising questions. It may dispel biased perceptions; make me recognize ignored fragments and remember forsaken episodes of my life story. And it may sometimes even be nasty and disturbing, especially when I don't want to consent to its philosophy or concept, but it might, in the end, perhaps reconcile us with ourselves. So after twenty-some pieces later of woven tapestry of words, we cradle our hands together, holding a hefty bronze key the size of his palm. There are cracks all over from how it's puzzled together, but it's in the proper shape of a key, and most of all, even if it was once broken, it looks whole again.

This fate of mine...

I knew I was broken too. I was scared and anxious and sad lots of the time, and I didn't know why. Sometimes we really aren't supposed to be the way we are. It's not good for us. And people don't like it. I've got to change. I've got to try harder and do deep breathing and maybe one day learn tricks so I can pretend to be more like other people. But maybe she was right all along, and all those other people were broken too in their own ways. Maybe we all spent too much time pretending we weren't.