Being alive isnt breathing.
But being able to feel breath on skin.
And the cold push of the wind.
Not breathing but taking in the fragrance.
Of saffron at your homes entrance.
Or your parents scent in an embrace.
Living is seeing more than the path.
But the colors of flowers and art.
Painted on the sky and earth.
But we are color blind and tone deaf.
Our minds so worried theres' nothing left.
To hear lifes song and swim loves waves.
Before our requiem calls us to feel our graves.
There are things you have done and been.
That can never be repaid.
Things that were felt and ideas unseen.
Memmentos and memmories made.
And sometimes the debt is too great to fathom.
My worth dwindles in comparison.
And the only thought of worth is the wisdom.
That you dont request compensation.
You give it free.
For all of me.
And its unsettling.
And unnecessary.
Its humbling.
And it makes me weary.
Angry and puzzeled.
Because I pay my debts.
I earn my laurels.
And even if I give till there is nothing of mine and me left.
That debt remains.
Solitary as a stain.
That scars yet holds hours and ideas that cannot be bought and sold.
And you are not even divine.
That I could pine that my own heart cannot shine as thine.
I am broken through and in owing all to you set free. I am sold forever into your slavery.
Words I cant say.
A debt I cannot pay.
Except to laugh away,
That I will love you always.
