Petit Mort

excuses

and trapdoors

and serenades

and promises,

and luck

and trust

and deep, aching regrets.

that plague you

and haunt you

and extend a friendly hand,

and chew you up

and fail you

and woo you

and kill you...

but slowly

and softly

and with no emotion at all.

which makes you run

and scream

and hide because you know it's going to turn out ok, everything does, everything has to, everything does...

but for the life of you,

you cannot see,

dream,

feel,

or lie to yourself

enough to find a clear answer as to how you're going to claw

out of the hole this time.

and secretly,

you're waiting and wandering.

anticipating the arrival of the one person who will look...

then look again

and somehow see all the running and screaming and hiding

and will reach in a hand.

a real, solid, firm, open hand.

and some run from it,

suspicious and scared of this new thing called hope

and related too closely to love.

but some take the hand,

some really do

and they are thrust out of the hole into the arms of the person who...

who they may love,

who they may need

but they have to stop simply

looking back as they sprint away

and just stop running all together.

they need to accept their fate,

warm and blinding.

cause here's their other half,

the only person who cared enough and dared enough

and looked hard enough

to see that this person was drowning fast in the storm of their memories.

and when they finally escape the endless hole

and the hateful sea

and the crushing fist of despair

and every other cliche that the book could possibly hurl at them,

they wake up warm and safe

and healed

and smiling

under a sky filled with endless possibilities

and hopes

and cares

and embraces

and stars.

so many stars...