You began in cement and small spaces. We’re skipping down three flights of stairs, not numbered and roughly assorted; a peek inside your eldest sister’s glory-box when you were ten years old, full of polaroids, and sparrows with silver teeth. You taught me vertigo high up, and teach still - this far in it pays to have the sun on your back and not in your eyes.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I used to feel like I had something to say back when my blood was river silt, stagnant black mud reeking of methane twigs and sharp stones tearing holes in capillary walls and listless pools forming in my throat and behind my eyes; I was leaking, toxins oozing from pores and between gritted teeth, from gashes in palms made by finger-nails’ protest.
But these days I am all Spanish viridian, creamy dappled sunlight, and fertile soil. The verdure foliage you coax from my joints is not without nutrients; life feeds on life, and the dreck still clinging to my bones is equal to the task.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
You bring spring in gentle triumph. Cherry blossoms fill the air, and laughter for no reason, other than because the world is beautiful. Grass pierces soggy soil still cold from the morning shade, and you fold your hand into mine, your smile predicting a blazing summer.
But when I wake winter still clings to my lips, everything watery and lethargic, the straining of eyes
through a haze of rain and caffeine, wet hair matted to a forehead between fingertips fighting the crushing indifference.
I know that spring will come back to me, but not as a lover; she is a messenger of death. Yet she is still spring, and I know she will mean it tenderly.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
In August we sat together by the netball court watching my sister play. Sub-zero, and besieged by dead gum leaves, my fingers burned quietly in yours. “Offside” and “out” and did not interest us, only “contact”.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
One. Ahhhh! I love this! Two. Can I just say the positivity in these so far are infectious? Three. This one is pensive, I'm thinking about that indifference/messenger of death line! Four. OH no it's getting darker D: That end though! Five. dead gum leaves <3
Somewhere in a moment of extreme anatomical clarity I saw the clear emotion of stepping towards you without a hint of ulterior motive. A sound with barely the strength to resound: les ans, mon ange, les ans manqués.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Everything is dry today. There are no memories, only trees with roots heated by electric chords of veins running a marathon on dry lips and dilated pupils. This is the host of my bygone days; I recognise where I am now.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. — Mark Twain
<3 
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