My heart is the tome of stories I gave you from my dried and cracking lips on a warm desert autumn night long ago. You didn't know what you held in your hands, what you heard in your ears; it's nothing really. Its that small scrap of fabric you found in the dollar section; that cracked old frame for the photo of your grandparents; an inherited old suitcase, well-worn from travel, that you use, because even old and broken things need love, and they're beautiful, in a special kind of way.
I gave you myself, I gave you my life; my darkness and my light. I chiseled out the characters, I painted the shame in shades of grey, and in an hour of darkness when you wondered if I would survive the weight I carry, I painted in bright lights what I think hope is. Most of all, I gave it all to you. You took this, naked and exposed piece of me, and doubt was in your eyes. Who would give themselves away like that? You tucked it up on a shelf for occasional revisiting, hid it in the back of a closet; away from the eyes of jealous lovers and false friends, never quite believing it was real.
That's okay, and if you throw it out with your old sneakers in the spring cleaning, that will be okay too. It was a gift, from me to you, and it's not worth much really; its yours now.
Perhaps, in a time of pain, you try to remember the few people in your life who were real; who tried to be honest, who gave up something of themselves, and you will think of me. Maybe, when you are in an hour of darkness, and you struggle to paint the shame in shades of grey, and fight to survive the weight on your shoulders, you will try to remember what hope is, and you will give me a call. You will wonder when you do, you will know this is the moment of truth; but I answer the phone, and the breath on the other end of the line is the same breath that delivered this gift to you.
I will not come to recollect it, I did not leave it with you by mistake. Poor as I am in this world, it is my heart I have the most of which to give; in this one way I am wealthy. I will give myself away again and again, in the strange hours before the dawn, on a warm, a balmy, or a freezing night. I will remember, even if I don't answer.
What you didn't realize, was that when I left, I took a piece of you too.
I gave you myself, I gave you my life; my darkness and my light. I chiseled out the characters, I painted the shame in shades of grey, and in an hour of darkness when you wondered if I would survive the weight I carry, I painted in bright lights what I think hope is. Most of all, I gave it all to you. You took this, naked and exposed piece of me, and doubt was in your eyes. Who would give themselves away like that? You tucked it up on a shelf for occasional revisiting, hid it in the back of a closet; away from the eyes of jealous lovers and false friends, never quite believing it was real.
That's okay, and if you throw it out with your old sneakers in the spring cleaning, that will be okay too. It was a gift, from me to you, and it's not worth much really; its yours now.
Perhaps, in a time of pain, you try to remember the few people in your life who were real; who tried to be honest, who gave up something of themselves, and you will think of me. Maybe, when you are in an hour of darkness, and you struggle to paint the shame in shades of grey, and fight to survive the weight on your shoulders, you will try to remember what hope is, and you will give me a call. You will wonder when you do, you will know this is the moment of truth; but I answer the phone, and the breath on the other end of the line is the same breath that delivered this gift to you.
I will not come to recollect it, I did not leave it with you by mistake. Poor as I am in this world, it is my heart I have the most of which to give; in this one way I am wealthy. I will give myself away again and again, in the strange hours before the dawn, on a warm, a balmy, or a freezing night. I will remember, even if I don't answer.
What you didn't realize, was that when I left, I took a piece of you too.
Mesmerizing! Words from the soul.
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