Philaharmonicai

You told me she had died in a hospital bed With her glasses on So that she could see Death properly And I picked away at my breakfast, Which was pancakes and strawberries, Trying to imagine Her squinting ahead at Him With her dying eyesight The pancakes were dry and store-bought And my plate was a pool of cold syrup And flavorless, Half-eaten strawberries When I had finished, And my hands were stained with the sweet blood And you took my place, Picking away at soggy crumbs.

I am single, but I am loved. I am not a genius, but I am intelligent. I am not breathtaking, but I have beauty. I am not a saint, but I am kind. To the world, I am not perfect. But for someone, I am.

one.     When she cries herself to sleep     six out of seven nights a week you must     say nothing. You must simply take     her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,     pale cheeks and wait for her to     slumber at the sound of your heart. two.     On the days where she wishes she     were part of the stars, tell her     no. Tell her that there are too many     lights in the sky and that just one     would be forgotten the moment you looked     away from it. Tell her that she is perfect     the way she is: completely human. three.      Don't let her think about the scars      that no one but her can see. If she      says