VALHALLA

I found you in Septembers when everything in the air smelt like menthol and lavendars brewing in the icy air. There were fallings off the crossbridges in mid October with suicidal hearts that changed minds midway through the fall as we realized we get depressed because it mattered to us and tendency of boxing ourselves in a darkened room with see-through veins were for coping reasons. I don't want to venture for word hunt to describe your sadness or mine today; instead, I will learn to describe the Sun and the yellow of letting go. Of being brave. Of staying alive. Of putting iodine on your cuts.

Some monsoon days, I'd sit somewhere I could see the sky and trace the unintentional shapes of the clouds to remind myself of beauty that does not have a value, where the Sun lines up with the roads I'm taking and emitting simple induced mirage. Bathe in the Sun when it's lukewarm so you get a taste of what it's like to feel living.

So, the days you're numbered with keeps it alive in so much ways. There are eclectical of things that will last until forever—mind you, a numbered forever— as the hydrogen melts away in golden. Those things, you keep it close to you and to your heart, cherish the fuck out of it, die for it, live for it.

In hindsight of the second life you believe you're promised, your affection could be unworthy by then and kid, you don't want to spend something that long with a glass-bottomed heart floating in regret.