My living hands dance without my body. They are composing a symphony, while I stare at the dead flies decomposing on my windowsill. The eulogy enshrined in my memory of tomorrow is disembodied, as clinical as biology. 

When we die we are placed in a box. Mine better be beautiful, like heaven, because I hate being a corpse. I hate that my stubborn humanity will keep me from the earth.

If you stare long enough at an abstract painting, you will begin to see yourself in every illogical curve. I was listening to Elliot Smith this morning when I realized a simple truth, being sad is beautiful. But so is being happy, angry, tired. We are beautiful because we augment our curves, whether they be smiles or frowns. Even Cubist paintings are two dimensional; with a foreground and a background, held together by tension, by poignant harmony and discord.  

Do you remember when you left
all those years ago?
We said our goodbyes in the summer.
When the flowers started to grow.
I gave you a hug
before you said goodbye.
You hugged me back,
telling me neither of us should cry.
Then you opened my hand
and put this in it.
That was a moment
that I can't forget.

A simple blue heart.
I think it's made out of clay.
Not a locket, but
we thought of it...