You're twenty-five tomorrow and I miss you.
I'm twenty-four and I'm lost in your wake, yet again;
you were always ahead of me, one way or another.
I was glad you were eleven days ahead of me.
Twenty-five terrifies me even more than twenty-four,
and I shudder and shiver and wish that the cold outside would freeze me in place,
freeze time, until I can find my way back:
But the treacherous sun will rise despite me, and the comforting night
I surround myself with, begging it to remain, will abandon me
slowly, as I did you.
The day wakes and you are twenty-five.
I know it's coming for me, this number I dread.
I don't want it. I don't want any of it. Words are my salvation, not numbers.
Numbers are my cage.
I always knew I could make it if you could.
But this year you are twenty-five and I am not there to see it.
I know you've made it anyway. Of course you have -
you're you, after all. They say that I am strong, but I am
crumbling rock compared to you -
strong, yes, but riddled with cracks - each piece individually strong,
but so hard to keep connected to the whole.
You are impenetrable marble, as strong as you are shining.
I idolize you, you know. You always thought that was silly,
but you never tried to stop me.
Will you think of me, when you are twenty-five and eleven days?
Will you forget me, push me from your mind?
Will you remember when I was more than
leaden bones and frozen thoughts - when I was still in motion,
in mind and body both?
Break my heart, I beg you.
Bleed it dry.
Just keep it, and don't give it back.