All My Rage

I miss things I can’t put into words because they were taken before I knew how precious they were.

Maybe that’s why people die of old age. Maybe we could live forever if we didn’t love so completely. But we do. And by the time old age comes, we’re filled with holes, so many that it’s too hard to breathe. So many that our insides aren’t even ours anymore. We’re just one big empty space, waiting to be filled by the darkness. Waiting to be free.

I see now that
you were always two halves of a whole, two hands interlaced, two voices raised to a melody sung in time.