home

I remember when it was warm outside.

When we were stressed but okay, older but naiive.
When we could sit out on the lawn and read,

and only get a couple pages done.

I remember when I didn't know what I was doing

When each day felt like a thousand
When I could picture the best itme when

we'd be reunited, it'd be perfect.

I remember when I wasn't so angry

When I felt like I could actually be seen
When I felt like someone would probably want to know me

and when I prayed less often.

I remember that I only kinda liked that time

When I thought I'd feel so much better about this one
When I thought I knew what was comin',

I'm still not completely sure.


I remember when I knew where these thoughts were going

When I thought I had direction for this typing
When I thought my ideas were worth reuniting.

All I got was this lousy writing,


and no more thoughts to give.


I'm so confused.




I told someone the other night,

that who I seem to be isn't quite true. That I'm not so loud and opinionated, that my story-telling is just for show and for a few laughs because people don't pay attention otherwise.


And so I keep thinking about, if I had someone's full and undivided attention,

What exactly I would say.



I can't automatically think of anyting. And that is the most frightening thing yet.

because I care about so much and would like you to know.

but i don't even know what to tell you first.


Let's start with i love you.

Maybe i should listnen to your story too.
This could be good.

there's hope, there's hope.


even though there's no more sunshine, and a lot more snow.

Why I tell my story.

I tell my story for you

because you care, because you learn
because you were there, because you saw it too.

because you like talking to me.

I tell my story because we enjoy coffee together

because when you walk beside water words come out
because camp bunks at night require outpour of hearts


I tell my story because it's funny
because I do silly things and I like your laugh


I tell my story because I want you to know how much your part of it meant to me. I hope you see that through my attempt at wise-cracks and sarcasm, a shadow of description over the actual reality of effect your love blew into my soul.

yeah, that.


I tell my story, to you.

But, you are not the single reason.




I tell my story because without it being said, out loud, or time and time again,

I don't know if I believe all these things happened.

because I want to remind myself that I'm actually alive

that moments haven't been wasted


that he's spoken to me

before.





I tell my story because remembering fuels my living right now




remembering what good he has done,

and what he's given me,

through you.