I've always admired how I have almost no idea what you're thinking most of the time. That makes me smile.
I'll live below the glass floor in your library in San Francisco, Portland, wherever it is.
I appreciate the time you've spent with me, even when I was sitting in your car with floods of tears and snot excreting from my face.
The suggestions you made, that I revered more closely than my own thoughts, realigned my 'morality.' It made me the person I wanted to be.
I changed from a depression junkie to a happy addict.
I still have the small, dead, handpicked flowers taped to the note you left on my mirror.
I've wanted to comment on your recital:
When you walked to your instrument, in a black dress and serene face after you bowed, I was stunned. Your hands moved across the gleaming white keys like dyslexic spiders, trying to navigate toward a black horizon. The piece you played melted away the atmosphere of the 'fancy' and 'upper class' walls you played inside. No other location could have been more appropriate than in a library.
What happy memories were made these past few months, from almost stepping on snakes to elegantly slipping into puddles.
As long as we're both on this planet, I'm sure hundreds more will be made.
So, why exactly does it feel like I'm dying when I say all these things?
Because you're parting and you've made the most difference in how I think and feel than any other person has.
Like you, this post is short and has a lot of heart.
So, maybe the times we had, they weren't that bad
And everything else, well, it was part of the plan
And we sang: I don't know where we go from here
This is the alpha, omega, beginning and the end
and we all just idolize the dead
So you were born!
and that was a good day
Some day you'll die!
and that is a shame
but somewhere in the between
is a life in which we all dream
and nothing and no one can ever take that away
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