Writing

I want to live,

I want to hear a million songs and dance in the rain,

I want to kiss and make love,

I want to see the world from every angle,

meet people that I will love and ones I won't,

I'm sorry,

I didn't do more for us,

that I didn't treat you like you were enough.

I'm sorry,

for not calling you more,

and didn't hold you when you needed it most.

I'm sorry,

up high in the sky

where birds come to fly 

two clouds that sit perfectly on time 

with the air that comes rounding thinner 

white fluff that twirls like sand 

the world is orange

and i mean orange 

like a sepia photo in which your grandparents

stand stiff & silent,

unsmiling, their clothes starched

for the occasion,

I am here to say this

in only facts

because I don't rely on feelings.

Fact:

Your Mr. Remarkable is quiet.

Cold.

Closed off.

Didn't interact unless

absolutely necessary

smiled maybe twice.

You were always

the original scientist

that inspired the hearts of malleable

kids. They would be sitting in circles

of those numbered matts

with fiddling fingers

that only were (slightly) off task.