You are not the longing or the sorrow or the memory of something better. You are not the things that seem broken or the parts that feel fixed. You are not the grudges you hold. You are not the money you made. You are not the things you wanted to do or all of the things that you failed to. You are not the story you told or the one that was told to you. You are not the last calendar year of your life any more than the whole sky is what you see if you look up and stare at it right now. You are where day bleeds into night, where colors run away with your heart leaking a sliver of moonlight. You are a mystery. You are a miracle. You are a proxy to a poet whose work you’ll never see. You are high up above all of the clouds, a place with no end, no beginning, and no name.
Just rereading this and it is so, so beautiful and moving. It’s like a prayer. The non-Madonna kind.