Apostle

he was my guidance,

the flame that lit my soul.

His slightly tanned hands molded me from a

lump of cold clay.

He shaped me, a linguistic michael angelo,

he carved my mind with his mellifluous words;

each one twisting my spine, vertebrae by vertebrae until I cannot go back to the way I was.

He was my Zeus, mighty and sempiternal, He is the one who drew the map and led me

away from Lost. He is the one that made me lift

a pen and make shapes that freed my mind. He is the one that taught me how to teach.

He is the one that my soul will miss most. He awakened something

in me so real, so alive, that no matter what weapon the monster beneath my bed shoves

into my hands and whispers wickedly ‘do it. do it for real, this time’ I will refuse. I will embrace the

creature beneath my mattress and I will hold it as we weep for the loss of my mentor.

He is gone, now. When he told me I said nothing. I shut off my mind so the tears
wouldn’t fall. My heart bled, that day.

Creating a gap in the circle we had been crafting for three years.

It was only when I collapsed in the comfort of my home that the impact truly struck. My glasses become cloudy, and my breath

came in heaves. This God before me, who had noticed my struggles when not even I had noticed them myself— this man,

who planted the seed that grew into everything that I love— this man who had made

such a massive ripple in my life, was walking away. And all I could do is smile

and wave— hoping one day he’d

know what he did for me. What he did for everyone who had perched in plastic

blue chairs. What he had done for the world. My hero is gone, but his footprints remain. 

I stand in them, waiting for my feet to grow until I can fill them again. That is what he taught me 

He taught me who I want to be.