⋆ starkey ⋆

How utterly tragic it is for the greatest gift of love

Even never once fulfilled

To tear through your skin and eyes

Paper weighted down to the dirt

Grass stained plaid jumpers and blueberry printed tablecloths

Ceasing from within our grasp

The drop of a hat

Late night ambulance ride or

Drawn out for years on end..

To be reduced to a plaque or a park bench.

The greatest gift of love to be just, ever so delicately, out of reach.

Grief is to know nothing can prepare your stomach for the emptiness.. and unwillingness to ever be full again.

To never recognize feeling full until it’s a distant memory of oatmeal cookies in an absurdly large jar always aching to be opened,

and to be held,

With those small sticky summer tanned hands

I can go back when I’m resting my eyes I need the right amount of nostalgia perhaps a bottle of fine Italian wine

But it’s only around the corner I have to remind myself !

No matter how far into the night i pry

I can rest happily knowing we found romance, wonder, and serenity

under the same sky.