grace

Scars will always scare away sunny days.

Do you remember the little laughs we’d share at the stupidest things or the way we’d lean into each other after the wave of laughter had passed? Do you remember the feeling of my hand sliding into yours so easily or the kisses I’d plant lovingly on your forehead when you had a bad day? Do you remember all the nights we spent together in secret where every moment swelled with passion including your whispers urging my silence or the way our bodies fit together, my head on your chest and your arm around my waist? Do you remember when it was all so simple or when we even made sense? And do you remember when it all came to an end or the actions leading up to the final moments of us? Do you remember the way my voice cracked and tears streamed down my cheeks when I calmly said it was over or how you screamed for me to come back when I walked out the door? Do you remember when you were mine?

Your innermost happiness to find.

I set out to write words to capture the light in which my heart sees you but have found that there is no such order in which I can string my words together to express such an immaculate love. Never before have I or anyone come across someone who bares the depth of the entire universe in just their eyes as you do. I do not want to use cliche lines like "..when I look into your eyes..." but such cliches are the only suitable beginnings for describing you. When I look into your eyes I see not their color but I see the building blocks of true love. I see myself in your passionate embrace and your lips pressed against mine in endearment. When I look into your eyes I feel a warmth that wraps around my body, a warmth that cradles my heart in the same rhythm as yours. When I look into your eyes I see your heart and when I see your heart I see a safe haven that protects against anything that stands in opposition to my safety. This safe haven has become my get away, my home. This safe haven is you. You are my get away, my home, my favorite place. When my world is seemingly falling apart I know that it doesn't matter because in you I have an entire universe.

I felt insufficient. For the first time in my life someone- he- was able to put me at a loss for words. My usual wit had been taken from me by means of infusing charm into lost words of romance that usually meant nothing to me. It was frightening that suddenly someone could say such silly things to me and completely strip me of my capability of flowed rhetoric. I was and am a writer, a very strong one. There shouldn't be anything that could ever take the pen from my writing hand, and I was confident that there wasn't. It's easy to understand why the feeling of insufficiency so easily knocked my confidence down when he so easily removed my pen and took it as his own. He was not a writer, but when he communicated with me- whether that be verbally or by letter- the words flowed as smoothly as notes from a cello played by a skilled musician. The words he spoke were not of the orthodox lover's, for he spoke not of what his heart wished for but of what his heart felt and that alone. Not only that but every syllable was delivered with such care that you'd have thought he spent days if not weeks planning his words. I couldn't tell whether it was what he said or how he presented what he said that put me at a loss for words and I couldn't tell if I felt more insufficient as a writer or more insufficient as a lover. Am I more insufficient as a writer due to the temporary loss of my abilities? Or am I more insufficient as a lover due to my heart that freezes when he even pays any mind to me. Usually when a boy utters a word that is grossly flirtatious not even a second passes before I've fired something back at him whether it be negative or positive. But even when previous lovers, not just boys catcalling, let their heart's weep I always was able to speak back with poetry in it's most innocent form. Are the funds of my heart insufficient for his love? All I know is that when he places the pen he borrowed back into my hands I know not what to do with it. It is a conscious effort to even respond at all. The only natural responses that surface are blushing and casting my eyes away from him just for him to guide my eyes back to his with a soft caress of his fingers on my chin. I always prided myself on being above the affects of romance, but in the confinements of this shared intimacy with him I find myself to be nothing but putty in his hands. I dream of his kisses and swoon at the sight of him and his words call for the insufficient funds of my love.

In the Medical Center of Houston, Texas is one of the world's best hospitals: M.D. Anderson. Every patient is always attended to by the world's best nurses, given the world's best procedures by the world's best doctors, and given the world's best medicine. Prior to a patient's appointment, M.D. Anderson provides a folder complete with preparations that need to be made before the appointments, what to expect during procedures, and dealings of recovery, tailored for the particular patient. The only thing the folder doesn't tell you is that M.D. Anderson is designed to age those who aren't patients. When I walked in this place I was fifteen years old, I've been here two days and I suspect that when I walk out I will be a thousand. M.D Anderson is a place where suspense hangs so heavily in the air that it is impossible for those without oxygen masks to even begin to breathe. The world's best hospital is equipped with the world's slowest clocks, the world's slowest procedures, and the world's slowest results. Just as every patient is given a folder of information, every visitor is shackled to the numbers of the clock where the hands of time strangle their youth. M.D. Anderson is the world's best hospital, where the dying go to live and the living go to age.