oh, keaton.

you sure know how to make me sad. 

but thank you for teaching me how to feel.

feel, so deeply, that it feels like

my spine is breaking. 

so deeply, my thoughts run wild

 and screaming, but you’ve helped me realize 

they’re only fleeting. i thought i was 

oh so alone, being a selfish writer, who felt as though 

they didn’t and would never have a home. not the kind with walls, 

but the one you face in the mirror and have to look at 

and say, “okay, okay, it’s okay.”

tears filled my eyes the first time i heard your voice. 

your lyrics carried me to the attic i held in my chest, 

so dusty, growing with mold. hollow with rot, 

my ribs split and rattled 

with all the loss. 

you were right. i was a self-centered writer, loving myself to sin. 

stay away from me, i said. i can’t let anyone in.

you see, i care only for art and career. so scared of death,

i try to leave part of me here. frightened to death, begging,

don’t forget, don’t forget me.

i didn’t understand this, until you sang it to my ears. 

how deep my pain was; how great my fears. 

i thought love was a myth; reality a cruel mirror. what was the point of living 

to be unloved and forgotten? to walk among others, nothing more 

than stitches and tatters of broken bones?

but it was through your sorrow, i found my heart –

my art. in my creations, i found a lust for living

 and a love for my soul. willing to be forgotten, i have my heart thrumming.

 alive for the first time, i think.

it was made for loving me and all of you.

thanks, keaton. i love you.