The first time somebody breaks your heart.
Not just the pulls and strain that muscle endures – but this. A tear. Right through.
(The first time you understand what people can really do, this history of holocausts and butchery they teach at school – you remember the foundation shake, the devastation. Nothing – or life – is ever the same.
And now it’s you).
The Girl with the Red Balloon – Banksy
“Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just read of
Others only read of the love, the love that I love.”
The economic beauty of a song lyric. The last line of a poem. The way it hits – da-DUM! – that heart thud reveal. It’s why we write a thousand lines. To get to this. To you. Sifted letters, finger trickles, and pounded keys – this constant turning over words. Just to get to this. To you.
And I …
You and I.
Not so little you and I, anymore.
A stranger said hey, what’s it about – but you looked like a shot was fired. A gun powder flash across the face. My bullet lodged. Da-DUM!
I wrote a book.
And I never got to thank you.
“Cause you and I both loved what you and I spoke of
and others just read of, and if you could see me now
well then I’m almost finally out of
I’m finally out of, finally …
well I’m almost finally, finally, out of words.”
– Jason Mraz
Banksy – Suicide Butterflies