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Feelings 11:44 p.m. 2003-11-28 You have no idea how sorry i am that you hurt. You can't believe me when i say these things, i think. But the truth is every time you cry i die inside, just a little bit, and every word you profess professing despair cuts me and my arms and my chest are all tattooed with these tiny transparent wounds, each scratch a pathway to the deepest parts of me. if i could, if i knew how, i would make you smile and i would brush the tears away and i'd collect them and make you a masterpiece out of your pain. I would weave every lonely night, every indeterminate instant of suffering and all those times when the torment was unbearable, into a shimmering ethreal shroud and i'd hang it on your wall, and you'd see it and understand. I would take every shuddering breath and cast a reflection of the way you look in my eyes. You would look at me and you would see nothing but love and forgiveness, and i would become necesity manifest, not for my benefit, but because you would see that i care and you would know that someone up there, someone better than any of us, someone who's perfect but somehow innocent, is looking down on you through my eyes and loves you. if my arms were strong enough and i was free enough to show you, i'd hold you close and i'd lift you up on high and the sun would shine down on your face and you would feel beautiful. And for a few moments, for a few perfect seconds, you would feel alive and nothing in the world would be able to hurt you. Because you would see how wonderful you are. If you read this and you wish that someone was writing about you this way, i am.
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