Outset

I remember cracks in the ceiling with stories 

of broken glass dishes that created

 wishes from the man in the boat 

who couldn't see colors

and never left the sea.

I remember feeling stuck in stopped time only to realize

 you had left hours ago and I was still staring at the under side 

of the roof that I only climbed on once to show you

 fear shouldn't come in heights and falling only hurts when

 your body is tense and your thoughts blameful.

I remember trying to sink my teeth into ideas that sink ships 

and did I ever thank you for stopping me from drowning? 

I remember your laugh, addictive then poison 

because cancer stopped you from finishing.

All I heard were vibrant sounds too close together

and you always wondering if I ever listened. 

I remember deep breaths

as deep as oceans with slight interruptions of storm warnings,

fears too big for too small palms and no time for pointless interactions 

           with strangers whose eyes only see imperfections. 

I remember stomach aches  

still not as bad as heart aches

 but you already knew that.

So I cover my ears

  because too sensitive was the sound,

 they told me to leave the rooms. 

All of them. 

And I will never forget one too quiet Saturday morning

with news still haunting,

words imperfect,

and only good intentions

but left with mixed emotions

confusion from both sides of the equation,

and no time to explain the riddle.