he called me kettle, I called him pot.

Pot: My feet are sore and raw from slipping on the jagged rocks at the bottom of a mountain you sit atop, no doubt, pondering life’s great miseries. My hands are cut and stiff from the branches I’ve had to twist just to keep a steady view of you while I make my way over valley and cliff. My back is aching and bruised from the falls I’ve been privy to, all the while, pushing may way closer to you. My shoulders are out of socket and hold only weight of tiny pockets I carry to comfort you. My head is a little lazy and my vision a little hazy but I squint daily just to make sure I still see you. And as my journey sometimes pushes and my patience sometimes flusters, I know in the end, I’ll still see you. So I pick up a more steady pace, and keep in mind this isn’t a race, so long as the finish line, I still see you.

And no matter if the wounds have healed or not, if you fall know that you will be caught, and I will lift your chin to see, that sometimes looking for you, you should be looking at me.

Kettle:

 I’ve selected the highest boulder to watch you pick your way up the steep side of feeling. My heart wincing every time you stumble, I struggle to keep reminding myself, ‘ just stay put.. he’ll find you. Stay where he can see you.’ The instinct to run to you is tearing at my emotions, I want to leap back over the obstacles I had conquered before you had even thought to make your way to me. I ache to take your hand, lace your fingers with my own and show you the way to the top….but, still…I wait.

I need to know if I am worth it to you.

I will be perched on this boulder waiting, ready to help you heal, ready to see you, eye to eye.

Waiting to greet you, with my lips pressed to yours.

Emails. January 2012.

I was such a stubborn asshole.

I let him die on the mountain.

 

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