Cathedral of Roses
Let me tell you what it’s like to admire the boy he is in his Levi’s, but question if you can ever feel at home in your own jeans.
Let me tell you what it’s like to hold a boy’s hand, feel the knot in your throat unravel, but the rope in your mind add another loop.
Let me tell you what it’s like to dream about kissing a boy as if he is an oxygen mask, and waking up unable to breathe.
There is a cathedral full of tangled words in your throat trying to climb their way to the church bell of your voice to be heard, and I hope that when they find their way out, I’m there to listen to the chime.
See, legend has it that lightning never strikes the same place twice, but the electricity of your soul has sent bolts through my veins far more than any legend could try to prove to be false.
All of this is to say, I don’t know why you choose to use your mind as a shield rather than a sanctuary.
I don’t know why you turned yourself into a suitcase for other people to store their worry, when you have enough to revolve on your own.
I don’t know why your thoughts spend so much time on the moon, when everything you speak about is sunlight.
But I do know this.
In all of the unfolding, rewiring, double checking, searching, questioning, elaborating, and unraveling, you have remained a welcoming garden for sharp roses who have just a little more blooming to do.