I think about the way you are

You will grow old and wither before me, dying like a fragile light. Your wrinkles will compress tightly against your skull as the flame beats the carved wood to ash. Your eyes will become sunken and obscured by white ash like snow on your eyelashes. My death seems infinite like a star that died many years ago, stretching like waves of light across the Galaxy. That undetermined world between existence that waits in anticipation like a water droplet before it falls or the bird, wings posed towards the sky with capricious skeleton fingers brushing the earth, ready to fly. I am the immortal dead that woefully walks the earth consumed by the cold fires of some distant foe. That burning fire that rests upon your brow and in your soul is your life, finite but beautiful. It will always be more beautiful than the immortal dying star. 

I can see in the shaky way you stretch your hand out towards some unknown experience, the way you step forward, scared, unsure, that the way you live your life is not for you, but someone else. An imposter you say about yourself, waiting for them to live your life for you. 

Who would this life be for if not for you? I see the finite, the unabashed youth step onto fractured ice to not have it shatter and break beneath them. The yellowed leaves always fall from the trees, hooked stems knowing when to let go. I hear laughter in the streets when the wind is too cold and bitter to have any experience other than that of frostbitten fingertips. These things that wither and hold death in the most tragic, romantic ways that never disappear but always seem to do that when you blink your eyes, are the things that make your heart ache. 

The fear you have when you look out your window, looks poorly on you. Darling, I would never wish that look on anyone, as it reads too deeply into your heart and is too private to be seen by anyone.

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