What began as a diary of sorts to help me cope with Multiple Sclerosis, has turned into a book of portraits I have painted that, more often than not, have very little to do with MS. This is for the artists who taught me the most beautiful things come from pain, and my sister, Stacey, who also has MS...
I will admit that you're the closest I have come There's just something about you that I trust I didn't say but I was sad to see you go You went back to the ghost, I went back to what I know
Seems like every night, meet my friends at some bar I tell myself I'm thinking but I'm just drinking 'til I feel far away Saw your buddy, said he talked to you last week Said you seemed pretty bummed, you've been wanting to call me Do it do it, do it do it You should do it do it Do it do it
'Cause now there's nothing where something used to be 'Cause now there's nothing where something used to be
It's confusing cause I'm the one that left, it was pre emptive I don't know who I am Are we all searching for something we don't understand? Someone else to see through our battle plans You should do it do it Do it do it You should do it do it Do it do it
'Cause now there's nothing where something used to be 'Cause now there's nothing where something used to be
I try to remember there's no future there's no past I try to remember if it can last then it will last Try to remember it
'Cause now there's nothing where something used to be 'Cause now there's nothing where something used to be
Do it do it, do it do it Do it do it, do it do it 'Cause now there's nothing where something used to be
There’s an ancient Chinese secret - a parable of sorts. Wait, it may not be specifically Chinese. It’s an Asian parable of sorts, but I don’t know where exactly it originated from because someone told me and, like I’m always reminding people, I have multiple sclerosis brain, I can’t remember details - new details fall out of my head. You can’t even touch my head because it’s sensitive to the touch. Maybe that is why details can’t penetrate and stay? They get away. As long as I don’t forget my past, my lessons, my precious memories, I tell myself I’m okay with that.
But, I’m 42. The one problem with that is if I’m to live - I must keep collecting lessons and memories (not to be confused with lesions). I shall worry about that later. Right NOW, I am grateful I have this gist - the theme:
I know nothing of martial arts, so I apologize if I’m confusing ninjas with other martial artists titles. This may be the the weakest of paraphrases, but with one of the best themes. It REALLY helped me. So bare with me. It will lead you to Drake. My favorite Drake song. Yes, Drake is after Elle King, who is after Dylan, after New Order, Josh Ritter always comes first on my iPhone. I like what I like. If it connects to my heart - If it jolts me into living a bit more heated. Makes my bonking body feel a bit more alive. I sing. I dance. I live. Hence I listen - to Drake and stories like these. Here goes:
There was a mighty ninja warrior sensei dude that lived hundreds of years ago in the Orient. How’s that for vague? One day while teaching his students, there was one mean student that kept calling him names, trolling him, throwing shade. It was to the point where the others finally stopped their training and walked out because they couldn’t watch their teacher be disrespected. That, in itself, would be disrespect.
But one boy came back after leaving and asked, “Teacher, why did you let that boy say all those terrible things about you? Why didn’t you fight back?”
The teacher smiled lovingly and asked a few questions of his own. The teacher put his hand on the bold student's shoulder and asked,
“Tell me, when someone reaches out to give you a gift, and you take that gift, who owns it? Who feels the weight and really owns it and has to carry it home?”
The student was confused for a second and then said, “Whoever takes the gift and holds it, owns it.” He thought surely he got this answer wrong.
The teacher’s eyes smiles and said, “That, my son, is why I would not acknowledge his hate. Then I would be the owner of such a terrible ‘gift’. Such hate and untruths are not mine to own. To respond would be to accept what he was giving and carry it with me for life, inside.”
The student bowed, eyes smiling back, and left…changed.
End of my weak paraphrase. This is why there are so many things in my life, lies from family told to other family members that I choose to never acknowledge. I will not touch them with a stick. I’d rather walk away and pray for the liars who are left, weighed down, carrying such dreadful things. I pray for those whose lives are so small, the only “truth” they get is from that one person who lies. I say that with love in my heart. Love is so much lighter.
THIS is why I’m with Lucie… I can’t get enough of this Drake song. Don’t touch hate and lies with a stick. There is one person who is a poison and I will not correct or negate or speak my truth. Many ask why I won’t “stick up” for myself. To respond to such ridiculousness is to take on the hate. That’s not a gift I’m willing to take on because it’s a pretty shitty gift. If someone knows me, they should know better than to believe. I have such faith in these people, I have seen them as patriarchs and healers and peacekeepers - so I feel disappointed. I will not reply. I pray for them all and walk away lightly, with the love I created on my own, listening to this song.
Curled up on the big comfy chair in my office, stuck in this song for hours. Feeling way too much. Sometimes that is the closest we will ever get ... to the things we cannot touch.
She sensed my connection to music. Said I used it to connect, to the things we cannot see. Begged me to stop it.
Right now, you are here. Put down the ladders, and bow your head in prayer.
And I do, but sometimes it just comes on. I let it play only once, and will myself to be strong. I must feel what is in front of me. Right now, right here.
...And I put down my ladders, and bow my head in prayer.
The Ladder Song (Bright Eyes)
No one knows where the ladder goes You're gonna lose what you love the most You're not alone in anything You're not unique in dying I feel a strange day every now and then Fall asleep reading science fiction I wanna fly in your silver ship Let Jesus hang and Buddha sit It's on now The days are long now The ups and the sun downs And a twisting mind If I gotta go first I'll do it on my terms I'm tired of traitors Always changing sides They were friends of mine Don't hang around once the promise breaks Or you'll be there when the next one's made Kiss the feet of a charlatan Some imagined freedom All the rest is predictable You can say you're the first to know Bought a mantra to concentrate Car alarm or hissing snake I know now How it's gonna turn out You've got…
So I read that we need 18 hugs just to be emotionally on par. To be really Zen, hug everyone I presume. So I had just woken, followed Tony to the kitchen and tried to give him a solid three hugs to leave the house with. I also figured out the numbers...each one of us would have to really focus on getting 6 hugs in with the other three family members. The thing with hugs is that when you give you also receive...so that messed my numbers up a bit more. We needed designated huggers each day?
Whatever. SO I'm telling him this and he said, "Imagine if we hugged 18 times before I left for work every morning, like as we were busy and getting the kids ready?" In my home, those are fighting words. He whipped out the camera and recorded it. I just woke up and was hella shy but did it.
Today, to get him back, I decided when he woke up, I'd do the same thing. The only problem, he was in his underwear. Nothing one of my sweaters couldn't fix. So here's Part 1 and Part 2 of 18 hugs. In all seriousness, you should spread them out so the chemicals are released evenly throughout your day and the person feels secure consistently. BUT, laughing with my husband and doing the dumbest things together is just as healing.
The cranial and cervical lesions are taking a toll. My ears hurt like I have people following me, piercing the cartilage. My throat, or trachea, feels like there's a ball in it. Breathing feels so strained sometimes I feel like I'm drowning. It is the worst hell. I was sad last month because of people I can't control. Why? They choose hate and lies and people choose to believe and I refuse to even attempt to change their minds. If you KNOW ME you should know the truth. God knows who I am, and the people that love me. But the stress, the mourning (it's like a death) really took over. I was catatonic almost. Indifferent. Showering was like...running a marathon. I truly thought my life was not worth living. I'd have crazy thoughts about what is the easiest, most pain free way to go. Please, if you feel that way, seek help. Be robotic. I didn't want help, but knew the protocol to save myself and just did it. I had to remove all feeling.
But then something tragic and magical happened soon after. They discontinued my meds and put me on this patch thing. My heart felt confused. I was withdrawing from the other thing and my heart was beating erratically. When it does that, you cannot breathe. I was laying here convinced I was going to die in front of my son. My body was started to get rigid and things were jerking. I begged my husband to come home. I couldn't have my little guy be here if this was it. But I tried my hardest to keep my gaze on him, to stay alive.
And then I just said the Our Father. I wasn't ready to die. I apologized over and over for such stupid thoughts. It felt wrong. I was meant to live. And then something crazy happened - something that happens when I am praying and spot on - my entire body filled with chills and a squeeze. It's like a hug from a ghost. An angel? A loved one that has transitioned before me? Jesus? I don't know. But I DO know, I don't want to go - I don't want to suffocate to death slowly either, I don't want to lose all my faculties (the spreading to my throat and ears suggests the lesion is getting bigger and I am closer to that), BUT I don't want to go now. It's too soon. And you know who I worried about other than my kids and T, my family that I am estranged from, "God don't let them find out I passed, not like this. They don't love me, but death changes people and I don't want them rehashing the awful things they did."
I was really dying. And I was thinking of the people who have caused me the greatest pain in my life, "God, please, I can't go thinking they may be hurt."
Maybe there was a point to this. I will let go of worry etc. Just be happy and make people smile. And maybe I am not so bad because my heart was broken for the people who continuously try to break me.
I am loved. I'm so blessed. And you need to know, yes it is depressing feeling like you are a burden. But God made you and every person who gets to know you and love you and laugh because of you... is blessed. I had to share my story with a woman in the same situation as me, this morning, only she didn't want to live. I could tell she was struggling. Her post read like my diary. So, I decided this is what I needed to tell her, and I am telling you. My heart started beating normally again for a reason, I regained breath...maybe it is to tell you to stop feeling like you have no purpose. Every person, caretaker, who gets to touch you is blessed and is fulfilling a divine calling to love and serve and connect...
Hug anyone and everything you can. I don't care if it's a tree. I'm not hugging enough. Try it. It helps. And believe me whenI say, you really do not want to end this life. You just want to end MS. There's a difference. This is for Ella.
If you feel any feelings whatsoever about suicide, please call the National suicide Prevention Healthline, Call 1-800-273-8255
Music is so important to me. It moves me. When you're losing your mobility, that is so much bigger than it sounds. I never believed I'd hear a song by chance. They inspire me too much. An intangible touch that sometimes pokes me to move, sometimes it's a much needed hug. And sometimes, it's this fire boiling in my blood. I have been so self-deprecating, apologizing all my life. Sometimes a song is the greatest "fuck you" just in time. I don't pick on people, soI don't let people pick on me anymore. I won't let them be my predetors. I'm not prey. Not food for the bored and easily amused.
I'm tired. So, I let the music blast. I take on the fire. As I should.
BUT, the greatest thing? Every song seems to connect me to people who are gone, but still loved. Sometimes, they just get me UP and push me forward. Music or lose it. But I swear it's the people who have gone, trying to reach me, through it. So I listen, like it's a prayer. In reverse. People beckoning me from beyond, the ones who are already there, to really HEAR. I honor them. It's serious. Let them be heard.
This is by Ben Howard. If you found it, I believe you needed it for some reason. May it lead you...to freedom. In whichever way you need it. We are all trapped in different ways, different stages. Some of us are still 4 years-old, stuck on what she's saying'. Staring at our plates. Never quite moved on from someone telling us we're let downs. Let the music lead you. When I listen to this one - it means I am in a fighting mood. And I don' want to need you, or anyone. I'm a feisty one. As is Ben. This is Oats in the Water and dag, I am so my father's daughter,
The ugly truth about MY multiple sclerosis is summed up in this picture. My husband is a fit, sexy, cyclist and his life is about riding. And me. And us. He has a pair of compression socks to keep his feet and the blood moving. I like the name. Compress all of this into one, tidy, WELL, FIT, compartment.
Some things don't fit into neat compartments. Like my feet. If they are working (yours)...kiss them for me. My feet get so cold, to the bone, while sweating. Ten tiny frostbitten little volcanoes. It HURTS. He rubs one foot, as I squeeze the other. That sounds dirty. But it's not. It's just ugly dirty. Not sexy dirty.
I had to put on his beat up, ugly (albeit clean) white compression socks. Little balled up pieces of fabric on the toes that hang off. I look at the little orbs and feel reduced to them, that size and purpose, while he tries so hard to make this work. He's a 12.5. I'm a size 6. But oh my lordy lord they feel so good. They fit, enough.
It took us twenty minutes to cover those tiny, sad appendages. They look so delicate despite all that hard work. It was like putting lycra on over a very long, wet leg. I kept pouring baking soda on them. To make me feel better. To take the clammy away.
To make my fucking feet choose a side - are you hot or cold? Choose a side. Just speak! I hate wet and I hate the pain. It's inarticulate. Wet and cold. Sweat and heat. Which the fuck is it? spins and repeats. But it never does speak to me! I'm so fucking tired of confusion. It's like even my feet have emotions and are eternally confused.
My feet don't know what they mean anymore. There's nothing to say. Some things will never make sense that way. That's why I don't question MS (most of the time). I have to make peace with that. Some things will never make sense. Stop trying.
The foot thing, it sounds so small. But it is constant and just like anything that's slightly negative, but CONSTANT, it drives you fucking crazy. This could be a metaphor for so much. I want my feet to take a side, and I want the people I love to take a side. Stop playing all sides. You can't do it. Everyone just ends up hurt.
Maybe the dirty truth isn't that I'm this desperate to heal my feet - I am a vain girl, yes - but it's more than this. It's more than my confused feet and that kind of pain.
It's just what it symbolizes. Tony helped me put the compression socks on. He stayed and pulled and pushed with me, sweating and grabbing and trying to hold on. That's been our lives for almost ten years now. But the others ( I mean people), they just let go. They are slippery - so easily manipulated from side to side when they should be bound to the blood that has always loved and served them. They let me, making my MS into a hopeful thing, fodder for gossip - I was trying to make them proud. They just laughed at loud. To my face. (I also had to do it to survive and not burden them, and I had to do it for my babies who very well might get this from me - try trying on that type of GUILT. You'll spend half your life in a fitting room crying).
I finally picked a side. I chose MY kids. I had to. I heard all the words they said about the little ones who were born to... love them. Unconditionally. The kids are true because despite hearing all that, they still do. Love. Everyone is ENOUGH. They are their legacy, their blood. And let's not forget so much smarter than us.
But that's over. Let's not focus on what was. He is here. He's wrestling with these socks with me. He refuses to leave. I remember when I used to push him away. "Go. Save yourself. Please...just go away."
"No Mama, stay. Love doesn't work, or walk, that way." He's the only person who meant it, and stayed.
Love picks a side. It stays and it wrestles, even though it can't touch the pain.That pains me so much to see the helplessness in his eyes. The creases on his face. All the places he can't touch or fix inside. Of me. He never stops trying. And still, he chose a side. He chose to serve me and not give in to MS...or the bullshit. OR, the fact, he will never, ever, be able to fix it.
This is love. It's not my face framed in perfect lighting, skinny dipping in a hidden pond, somewhere beyond the moonlight. Although we had all of that in its time and place. We still do. It's him, and the sun rising, while desperately trying to help me to pull those socks higher. The gratitude on my face. To offer me relief. A relief that will always be physically incomplete, and still, so fucking emotional.
I woke wrapped up in my husband. Fidgeting. Stretching desperately. Trying to regulate. I fell asleep in his arms again, counting the freckles on his wrist, leading to his hand that cradled his face. I memorized every trace. Maps of his skin. I am praying this disease can never erase from my memory. He is all I'll ever need to know now...that and how our children grow. In bed, sleepy head, I'm mapping his skin, I said, "Thank you." He asked, stunned with sleepy hair, "for what...?.
"For everything, for all of it."
He said I was welcome and he kissed me. And together we embarked on THIS sock destiny? It was so dumb, but it showed him for all he is - love. Putting on a pair of really ugly sucks. For twenty minutes. That's grace. Give thanks for grace. That it was sent, and spent, on you because you were more than enough. That's what the universe does with love. It spends it, on you. The trick is, you MUST TRUST it to. It's just delivered in packaging you aren't used to. Don't be fooled by marketing. Let them be fools to you.
I'm not sure what you are looking for. We run wild as kids thinking we were born to be rockstars, celebrities, adored. So much more than we feel. I never felt anything more than lost, but I treasured every rooftop I slept on, every love I've ever had. Not just romantic love. Love is more than sex. More than men. Women. Women taught me that.
But that was a time. It was a place. A season. There's a time when you graduate into more. When that, that Freshman year, is no longer real. The hardest thing you can ever reach for is ... this. There's no moon or sun to guide you. Just your heart, in the darkness, beckoning you to reach and feel. Keep going when you know it is real. There's no path. Trust yourself. Reach for that next level. Walk toward nirvana. Trees, roots, branches. Anything you can grab, to make you steady. There are stages to all of this. Let your love graduate to a higher, more spiritual level. I finish his thoughts. I'd say we've gotten pretty closet nirvana in love. You can too. I believe every human being deserves this because, without it, you aren't totally seeing. By the end of this road, you should have 20/20 vision. That is why true love is so freeing. It is why I pray.
He'd say "Who fucking cares Mama, just get them on and stop the pain," because he worries so much about me. He panics to make sure I'm breathing. But in his calm, he knows, the point of all this is to see. See. And yet it pains me to see his face. I always try to hide mine. The socks are just a farmer's almanac - all the rain it can't stop. Just telling us when? The desperation pops, it's all over his face. He married a feminist, and yet he still believes he's suppose to save me. So I nod, and smile, and try with him again. Out of breath, from socks. But if you have a soul, you know, it's not about the socks. It's so much more.
Someone to love you enough to slip you into this, so tedious and painful. Frantic to fix it. Someone who promised to stay and did it, all the while investing all of themselves, in you. Someone who is so focused on the ugliest parts of you, to make you feel good, for twenty minutes.
Crazy things will envelope you on your journey to "sick". I panic, worrying about breathing, suffocating to death. I've never said that out loud. But there you go. If you must know - it's slowly suffocating to death, trapped in my body. Not able to move, but totally aware. So we have to make lists and sit and talk it over. All the hard things he needs to do for love, if it goes that way. Let your soulmate transition and stay here alone during the wait, until we can be together again? my heart breaks from him. That doesn't sound quite fair. That's not just a lover, it's a best friend. I know where the lesion is, I know the pain my neck and my shoulder are used to feeling, It's so close to my airway. But you can't get stuck on "what if's?" and "somedays". Repeat it. Sing it.
You can't get stuck on "what if's?" and "somedays".
I don't know how this will end, but my lord how my body is leaving me. With MS it is slow. It's always taking something small and new. Over and over again. In a patient way. Until I go. Sometimes I forget this isn't pretend. I will go. And then I feel loved and it hits me - this isn't gonna end well, for anybody that loves me. I feel like loving back will only hurt them. I try to withdraw, to protect them. He pulls me back and refuses. These, he insists, are a bunch of stupid excuses ...not to live.
He beckons me again, to feel this. Relax. Feel him. So I try. For him. For someone who struggles to move, I do a lot of moving for him. His love is always stirring.
Maybe I should be sad, and maybe I am sad, but mostly I just FEEL this. He's getting me to feel again. I trace my belly button, contemplating how I was attached, physically, to our kids. I make him touch it, trace it with me. Life can be magic as much as tragedy. I sit and question proportions.
Feel where I once was connected to ourkids baby. Isn't that crazy? I was connected to each of them through my ballon button? I was his bridge to a love he couldn't possibly fathom. Until THIS, our kids. His hands, on my ankles. Something so ugly and pathetic, feels more like a kiss.
That's what you want to shoot for. The rest you cannot control. We didn't write the script. But you can pick the players. Choose the one who make the scariest moments feel like a kiss. Who turn it into pleasure.
Shame on me for ever wanting anything more than this. Oh, and don't forget - sometimes you have to pick a side. You are sick, but it doesn't mean you are a weenie. You have to stand up for what is right. Remember you are DIVINE and your vote counts. I don't let anything slide despite them insisting I'm uptight. Giggling behind my back. The difference between us, I can still sleep at night. I heard the tapes. They hurt, I close my eyes, dismissing them. Because T is with me in this, our faith, our babies, there is someone else we must please at the end of all this. It will never be your "friends" the gossips. Tell them I said "hello" and to "suck it".
I imagine He will ask me one question at the end of all this - did I choose war, or did I kiss?
That and, "How were you gonna rock those socks with your new quicks?"
A million stories whispered, secrets laid bare, and dances at dusk.
My namesake is US.
That is where I come from.
Hence, I honor you.
As best friends do. In many ways we felt forsaken, abandoned, as orphans do. In hindsight, we were spoiled, we just never knew. Oh wow, how I tethered myself to you, and the music.
The rest of me, in regards to engaging the rest of the world, withdrew. I'd dye my hair crazy colors, pierce weird things, like a scream, "I don't want want to be anything like you, just him." You were enough then. You are enough now, my friend.
You are boundless electricity, energy. You will always be.
We rushed the stage, the band. Their last show, the end. Everyone is adultin' and aging. But we never ended, buddy. So many more stages. The creativity. The loyalty, you're stuck with me. Like dust or lint, sitting on the windowsill. I'm with you as you stare out, wondering what all of this adds up to. I'm beside you. Slightly. Still.
Just as much as you need me. I will let you grow. As you allowed me.
You accompanied me down an aisle, to my husband. You must have felt widowed in a way. Afraid in some way that you'd lose me. But you were brave. You let me smile fourteen years ago today. We got drunk and we danced like we did on the stage, that night. Bass darting through our hearts at the speed of life. And you smiled. I saw you. Every now and then, my friend, I catch you. You let yourself stop thinking and the waves in your head crash, presenting in a smile, tsunami over you, in the coldest, purest way.
And you, you just ride the waves...
You revere the sea. You say since the beginning of time, it has been here. How many whale's kidney's have processed this ... water? I giggle, watching my daughter test "brave" with each wave. Knowing, you. You are the sea. You've always been. You've always stayed. You shaped me in ways and waves no else could. Not then.
Your mind, all the books in the world could never satiate.
God how you loved books. Building them into walls, surrounding your bed. We'd pass out listening to this song, with titles in our head. I'd read and read...til sleep. All those titles made me feel so small. Until one day they dared me, "Woman the fuck up, stand tall," and made me a writer.
You made me man. In so many ways, you made me because you stuck around. You were so brave.
I write about it all. And our love will never be understood, not that it should be, it's that unique. Complete. Absolute. And yet this mystery. Like faith. Some things, the most spiritual, sacred contemplations, are not meant to be seen. The is how I see US. Except, those teen sneak previews at dusk. We'd come out, dancing.
Titles and crickets and walls lined with books. The smartest boy I've ever known. How you looked into me. It showed your heart. It showed your mind. I love you completely. Even when you make me mad. Even though you are not "mine". Unconditionally. Which is rather rare - we never really knew unconditional love. We were born ashamed of something, some "untitled" bad, that had nothing to do with us. Mistakes our parents made that condensed into residue after nine-months. Were we unwanted? Were we their offspring their children, or just dust?
We didn't know. But we stuck together. And you never left me. Not even in the hurricane, when we parked the beat up, green car on the hill. Instead we laughed and danced, knowing it was a moment we'd never again get to feel. We literally weathered everything.
Let it rain, bring the pain, we'll love anyway. We'll stay, smiling.
We were an US. Still are.
Even separated and struggling. Emotionally together. All these years and you'd never leave. You were my soldier. You let me just be. And loved me that way. On and off the stage. Music or silence. Cradling the violence. Drugs and boys. All kinds of noise. There is a darkness in all of us. BUT, you loved me. Beautiful boy. You still love me. And, well I'm not looking back. Never will. My love is eternal, it can't be taken back. It is boundless, it always was...where the fuck would it go even if I tried? It will never die.
And I was right, I had no family. But amen, you did. You fought, You win. I sin. I have my friends and him, ours.
We rushed the stage during their last show. Your sweat surrounded you like a halo. I can still see your smile. Miles and miles from where we are today. It always calls me back, "Stay. Stay."
So, I go back to that day. Of velocitygrl and their last show.
We're jumping. Center stage. Happy little us. Questioning everything we couldn't know, except the beat. In some ways, we are still rushing the stage. Music knows no age. Nor does love and orphans saturated with loyalty. I am forever a servant at your feet. Happily. I pray you know that when you worry you don't me, or anything for that matter, anymore.
Here is my home. Here's the key. You have all of me and my family.
She's singing beside us. The bar, since, has closed down. Twenty years later. We're still bopping along. You're still my favorite skater. She's still our favorite sound. My namesake you say until this day. I giggle and look away. I whisper, "US." We were never dust my love, we were US. Enough. And loved beyond dimension. Beyond every contention. We stayed. Family.
We won. We proved it could be done.
It's not our last show. Not yet. I'm still dancing, everywhere you go. My legs, diseased and slow. I still dance beside you, wherever you go. I made a promise to you. As you did me. It's not what US do. My namesake. Velocity. Everything going by so fast beside us, but I'm still slo-dancing with you, in my forties, at dusk.
In case no one ever told you...you are loved, just as you are, and far more than "enough"...
I'm on my last leg Running when I Can barely walk
And when you said I couldn't see You told everything but the truth Could it be all that bad To forget about my favorite thing I know you
You know all I want to do Is live my life And forget about you...
Rob, I didn't know how to really LIVE, before you. Eternal gratitude for you. This, this is what you do. Inspire people to try.
Trying to tiptoe down the stairs. With the heat, and the light, it was like I could see the air. My feet are bare and dancing for you. In hopes to leave you in your slumber. You have been in my life for eight years and three days. Don't tell me age is just a number. Do tell me how I smiled before you. Completely. Certain things were put into place before you. Cracking me. Patiently. Uplifting the edges. Steeper, and steeper. Until you were here. Then and only then...
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