I am in love with the irrevocable scars of sin that burn burn burn blue into your skull. I am so transfixed with the way your ribs tangle into each other when the laughter burns through you and you have no choice but to let it out. I am perplexed by the ancient little strands of your hair that you tuck and tuck behind your ear until you just let it dangle, beautiful and golden. I love all of your ripening flesh particles; I have let them infiltrate every corner of my memory where I will lavish them until my last day. I beam, beam beam with luminous ecstasy at the way you bend into everyone you meet, leaving traces of your soul lingering in even the thickest of air.
This is for you. and you and you and you. I am fully convinced that I am undeniably in love with you, beautiful strangers. All of you. it doesn’t matter how long I’ve known you or not known you. I know that you have a soul and oh hey! I have one too. And on some level, maybe even on multiple platforms, our souls are the same color and burn out the same way when we get hurt, when we laugh or when we cry. Walt Whitman told us all about his largeness and his multitudes, but I’m sure that we can find him somewhere among the many compartments that make up our dainty little souls. All the leftover rust and ruble that we saunter onto our souls could be swept away if we just let each other in. I promise to let you in, darling. But first my dearest, let’s make another promise to just let it all go. Every single strand of it.
Let it all go. The left winged tips of friends that collate only on Sunday mornings when they need someone to wipe the hung-over droll stains from their pillows. let go of the scheming sirens of hope that you hold for humanity, because it owes you nothing. Let go of the midday slump you seem to run into every day because corporate America has seemingly tinged the pretty parts of your soul that once vibrated evenly among the wreckage. Please let go of the pre planned plans that you slam down daily, ready to figure it all out with your tired, tired eyes that haven’t seen enough of the world to think you’ve got it all figured out. let go of the shrieking ideals that you hold up so high on that polished pedestal, take them down and hold them at eye level and reach into them and see yourself and how beautiful you are. Let go of that overpriced, overhyped dream you like to lounge in, and make room for the parts of you that write with hurt and nostalgia and fear. Hold up these parts and turn them inside out so that the world can feel them and feed them with their own broken parts.