thank you, cody.

"All the love I want to give gets caught between every rib."

I was given a heart the size of the sun,
And it's burning up my insides in its eagerness to tell everyone it exists.
It wants to reach out and help the fallen to their feet,
steady those who are stumbling,
embrace the good people who have been damaged by night and by their own impulse to turn the other cheek.

But I can't see them.
They don't know I'm here.
How can I help them when the path between us is blocked by the unsentimental crowds?

God.
Oh God.
I just want to tell everyone:
"I love you."
I swear it's the truth. I swear that I will be my own role model,
because the one placed before me is sorely lacking;
I swear I will never lie to you.
Just let me bow down to you and let me smile

and let the sun break through the crowds.

As it is,
I am forced to settle for this,
to wander and burn and never be complete;
I will never be whole until I can explode.

Merry Christmas.

I was lying in bed, listening to your breaths,
but it was like listening to the sea,
because you are so much, you are everything,
and I am just a boy standing on the beach.

Watch your step.

In subzero temperature I can finally see things.
An exhalation illuminates the shapes of ghosts who would otherwise choose to conceal themselves in the thin air.

Beneath my feet, the ice, too, is thin.
Water moves below me as if it is alive, as if some goddess wishes to smile at me and draw me down, seal my breath with her pale hands, watch the sunrise with me from beneath an awesome prism of blue.
I must not misstep. If the ice cracks, this fragile lifeline that connects me to my imperfect human desires will surely not hold.
But if —
I will turn my eyes to the dawn.
If I cannot have it, at least I would like to know that.
At least I would like to know.

And still the clouds of mist reveal those spirits who shiver starkly in the air,
still the ghosts struggle to draw breath,
still they dream of better days,
they dream of their silent graves.

There are dead men in the sky.

The air is polluted.

I extended my hand heavenward, foolishly expecting the love that was promised me,
but not everyone is a saint.

His owl eyes attack us. We can only breathe behind this charred veil,
counting the stars that are, in essence, dust at its most divine,
waiting in the shade of Our Lord who always, always watches us.

Once upon a time, twelve feathers were left to the Earth,
and, like the clear, calling voice of a jay, the truth was broadcast across every place,

except maybe heaven,
because the angels seem to have forgotten the act of honesty.

I have tried to make truces with him, but it's too late;
he already takes us for granted.

To be a saint is an awful burden to bear.

Late in the night I lay a-waking

If I fell into a great black sleep
lying on my stomach,
Would heaven take advantage of me,
Violate my perfect shroud of flesh and hollow bone,
And draw out the wings that are made of some soul-like ether
and that beat against my heart every second of every moment,
and will continue to do so for the coming aeons that stretch far into the sun?

Evidently not.
Because I tried it last night and woke up
just a boy.