I once promised you my patience. You sang me broken but devoted hymns and promised you were here for the long haul, as long as I was too. You approached my trembling spirit in a thoughtful crawl for understanding, a gesture so unsolicited but so appreciated. Your teachings were subtle and it’s taken six years of me knowing you to even crack your surface. The mountain ranges of you appeared on my radar during the most persuasive era and the dedicated anchor you soon became reminded me that I was delicate but significant. Holding your hand kept the world from dizzying me.
The years following became a poignant mess of ache and fleeting impatience. You vacated my life that year and my hands became homeless. I thought the only choice was to wait. So I waited. An addict for your poisonous words, I stumbled each day to find that address with the genuine boy attached to it. Sentiments about you evolved rapidly and irrationally and your rip current tugged constantly at my ankles. The safety you once provided had withered, and my chaotic thoughts became nothing but a bad habit. Distance forced me to look through rose-colored glasses, and consequently, I put you on a pedestal you were reluctant to accept. I blamed my trembling on my addictive tendencies and your quiet eyes. Loving you was not all bad, but you fractured me, and kept the pieces of myself I only intended to lend to you.
Keeping you here once seemed to be a key battle in my civil war, but I know now that beautiful things will still be beautiful, with or without you. The world has finally stopped pushing me toward you, excluding your comforting yet haunting eyes from my dreams. We have reached a comfortable sense of amicable equilibrium, where I hope we can remain. While the sun is still in my eyes, I am levelheaded, my hands are still and my demons are quiet.
In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
A mix for Thomas Shelby, that brokenhearted boy.
Red Right Hand (Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds) // Old Number Seven (The Devil Makes Three) // I Want It All (Arctic Monkeys) // Did You Hear The Rain (George Ezra) // Broken Crown (Mumford & Sons) // Hymn #35 (Joe Pug) // For My Family (The Devil Makes Three) // I Won’t Be Found (The Tallest Man On Earth) // The Wolves (Act I & II) (Bon Iver) // Putting the Dog to Sleep (The Antlers)
Let yourself come to a stop.
Bow your head under the stream of broken hymns
pulsing and pulling their ways through
terminals, customs, bagel shops -
you have never seen motion so human.
Not at this hour.
It is 4 AM
and your flight leaves soon.
You wonder if these halls,
catacombs of curvature,
have heard more honest love confessions than chapels.
All the times you wrote sonnets against Metro rails -
does he read them, anymore?
The smell of coffee is strong enough
to keep you from feeling the need
to buy it. You will probably
fall asleep on the plane, cityscape sprawled out
beneath you -
How can you ever expect to hear
when people tell you goodbye
if you don’t look out the window?
And this one right here is for the fat girls; this one is for the little brothers, this is for the schoolyard wimps, for the childhood bullies who tormented them; for the former prom queen and for the former milk crate ball players, for the nighttime cereal eaters and the retired elderly Walmart store front door greeters: shake the dust. This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them, for the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns, and the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children; for the nighttime schoolers and for the midnight bike riders trying to fly: shake the dust. This is for the two year olds who cannot be understood because they speak half English and half God: shake the dust. For the boys with the beautiful, beautiful sisters: shake the dust. For the girls with those brothers who are going crazy, those gym class wall flowers and the twelve-year-olds afraid of taking public showers, for the kid who’s always late to class and forgets the combination to his lockers, for the girl who loves somebody else: shake the dust. This is for the hard men who want to love but know that it won’t come, for the ones amendments who not stayin’ up, for the ones who are forgotten, for the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to and then they are never spoken to speak. Every time you stand so you do not forget yourself. Do not let one moment go by that does not remind you that your heart beats a hundred thousand times a day and there are enough gallons of blood to make everyone into Oceans
Mat Kearney’s “Heartbreak Dreamers” means everything to me