The Most Beautiful Things Ever Written


I write, therefore I am.

My dear, we’re slow dancing in a burning room.

So this is the part where I remember your smile under the street lamp on the beach. The cool breeze as you carried me. The quiet shush you gave me and laughing as we realized the people next to us were doing the same. I yern for just a little more contact… This is a fantasy I like but I crave your skin again.

One of my only regrets is that I don’t remember the day we met. I never could remember, no matter how hard I try.

What joy you must have felt holding the 6 pound bundle of potential. You could only hope, only dream that one day would be better than the life you had been given. You never could have known.

What joy you must have felt watching that 6 pound bundle grow into a toddler. Counting to 100 by 3, reading by 4. Reading - something you never had been able to do. There that bundle was, reading to you. That bundle would never outgrow it. It would read you your letters, your emails, your trade magazines.

What joy you must have felt watching that bundle grow wings and fly off to new places. DC, West Virginia, college, Connecticut. You never could have dreamed life would treat your bundle so well. Beautiful, intelligent, and driven to a fault. You could have never guessed your bundle would raise so far above the small, industrial town it came from.

What joy you must have felt leaving your bundle in a small museum. What joy you must have felt from every phone call, every Skype call. What joy you must have felt.

I only have two regrets. I never called you enough. I can’t remember the day we met. What joy must have been coursing through your veins. I have but this picture as a memory of that day.

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