The Story Garden 5.0
Poetry
want
you're not here, and tonite it's choking me with grief and keeping me from sleep and making me taste again and learn again the bitter lesson that did you in-- i can't make it safe for you. i can't open the door and swear that everything will be okay, that you'll survive the mad rattling of a hundred hamster-wheels spinning in unison, spinning in dissonance, spinning alone and together and apart and together again. i can't make it safe for you, no matter how much i want to gather all the scattered pieces and say here, here... have faith... tend your gardens, work your quiet magic, yes it is IT IS magic and here you can be bigger than the mountain that says otherwise because here you MUST be bigger than the mountain to survive the avalanche of doubt that is like yours but not yours, and the morass of fear that is not like yours but becomes yours because it springs eternal from pockets of pettiness and pride worn thin with repetition. i can't hold back the tide. i can't make it safe for you, can't promise you won't drown, trust foundering on shaky ground, and i thought i KNEW i never could but it hurts how much i wanted to. want to, still.
--Caitlin James
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