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Henry Rollins; Solipsist

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I almost had you I almost held you But you never got to see the sun

We’d like to thank the talented Rebekah Garvin for sharing her music with us on Facebook. Please give her music a listen: Almost was written in loving memory of the two precious angels that she lost, the first on 11/14/2014 and the second on 6/2/2015.

To all the grieving mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, grandparents and godparents—the pain may be unbearable and it may take some time for the heart, mind, body, and soul to heal, but take comfort in the fact that the little ones we’ve lost are happy and well, and in a better place.

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“The Child Who Was Never Born” by Martin Hudáčeka.

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Always sweetie, always.

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I feel lonely again.

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“I’ll be here just waiting and hoping for every long dream of you to come true.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

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Mary Shelley, from a letter to Percy Bysshe Shelley (1814) / Joanna Newsom - “Only Skin” (2006)

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“You kept telling me it was okay, but it wasn’t. You don’t know what that’s like – to throw yourself out there completely, openly, unafraid of what will come because of it, because you love someone so much you can’t keep it to yourself. It’s raw. It’s brave. You can’t bottle up that kind of love. But you didn’t love me back. It’s the worst kind of humiliation. Because you knew me better than anyone else – and still you couldn’t love me.”

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Coffee & Cinnamon.

We sit drinking coffee with our backs to the morning sun. Coffee & cinnamon for me and bitter black for you — I never quite understand how you manage to stomach that. But then again, you don't understand how I can stand cinnamon in my coffee. We're completely different beings in the same circumstances.

They say opposites attract. We have proven that fact to be wrong and right too many times for me to count. You say I'm too much of a battle-axe and I say you're too judgemental. Sometimes your words are coated with acid, sometimes you make me want to pack everything I own in your house — which isn't much, and undo everything we have grown to be. All the hard work, tears, anger, love.

But there's these dulcet moments that keep me bolted to the ground. The memories I crave more of, even if they're just coffee and chats. We laugh, I cry, we spit fire, we apologise, we start over again. We will always be a vicious cycle, and it's okay. As long we come back to our coffee state of minds.

— spilled-prose

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Someday you'll write your last poem about the person who made your life hell.

Someday they will be as little as dust in the past.

You won't remember their outline or their features.

perhaps you won't even recall their name or why their role was so important in your life.