Put on my worried shoes.

Broken. A state, seemingly sad, but none the less inquisitive. How did I get here? Maybe on a sail boat called September. It's always treated me well before. Surely this time would be the same. Everything is new. The people I've heard about for years finally drift into view. They're from out of town. They're from where it is always snowing and always sunny. At the same time. The feelings, like something is missing. Because something is. The one who taught love has passed. So I take all that I know, and tuck it away. I can't forget. I must not forget anything. It rained once. Never enough. How dreary is it that there can never be enough? I worry. It's new. I've never really worried before. Never known how. It's one of those matters, similar to crying, that can't be taught or explained. It simply happens. Inspiration is overflowing, but the trouble seems to be in captivating it. All I can do is dream, and wait for the leaves to fall. I put on my worry shoes. They're yellow. Golden. Goldenrod. My worry shoes are goldenrod, like the crayon. Soon, I'll meet a monster and we'll fall in love and October will come and I'll be free again. As for now, I'll rest until my mind has settled. Only to wake up again and let it roam recklessly through memory and hope.

It's 12:01 am.

I'm laying in bed backwards, and I finally know what "feeling" means.
Flashbacks stampede and crush me. In the car. Singing. Coffee. No left turns. Cut through a parking lot. Dog in the back seat. It happened. Why didn't I care then?
The memories, they come in with the tears. Somehow, I've accidentally developed the habit of pulling my hair out. Sick, right? Sick. Cancer. Can. Cer. Intimidating. Not really. Forever, I've heard about it. It's ever-present.
"Maybe someday one of you will grow up and become a doctor and discover a cure for cancer."
"Age seven, and he's beating cancer."
Oh yeah, Cancer. That things they have on Grey's Anatomy. That thing they make lemonade stands for. That thing that killed Audrey Hepburn and Patrick Swayze, and is now killing her. That Cancer. The cancer that Andrew McMahon and Rick Payne defeated. It's puzzling. Cancer. I'm a cancer. Astrology. Being born on July 17th makes me a cancer. What the hell? Stop, Lex.
Another one. A phone call. She's happy. Lots to say. Both of us. Christmastime. All I wanted was for her to stop talking. What kind of grand-daughter am I? Now every word she speaks, I catalog into the pits of my heart. The "Her Last Words" file. The thing is, they don't tell me stuff. Nothing, really. So maybe she's not dying. Maybe she's going home soon. Maybe I'm being negative. Maybe. Maybe we'll beat this. Maybe nothing grey can stay.

Dear God

Speech therapist. Feeding tube. Out-patient. Soup. Oprah. Floor 14. Waiting room. IV. Beeps. Nurse. Pretty nurse. "I read anatomy books for fun." Seven gay men. Small. Thin. Weak. Nothing. Air. Panera. Gown. Shaky. Gone. Fading. Sad. Gray. Grey. Gray. Terror. Cold. Help. Helpless. "We don't know." Indiana. Gift baskets. Care. Flowers. God. Crying. Awful. God awful. How. Die. Dead. Death. Missing. Soon. Life. Small. Hope. Fear. Fearless. Fearful. Kay. Switch. Stress. Tears. Tears. Tears. Wash. Long. Far. When. How long. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why.

Make it stop.