I

was born from your shedded skin.
Paper thin yet heavy, crumpling with the wind,
the breeze singing melancholy as it takes bits of past mistakes.
I think of all you have been
all you could have been
and all you are.

I was born from your hands
coarse and working, calloused from the constant attempts
of handling time;
you hold my fears with softness, afraid to untangle your fingers
because
you are afraid of what you are capable of.

Your screams could shatter daybreak and
today would gladly die for you.

You are sun rays and open blinds,
particles drifting through gravity.
                I am
a child astonished by the way you glitter like tiny stars.
You are where my little bit of space resides.

The same atoms that forced the Big Bang to become traveled through the threads of time to touch your existence,

you are matter made of all that matters.
I used to dream of the way you walked on asphalt as if you were gliding,
for a moment I thought I saw angel wings on the back of your worn out shoulder blades, sharpened by the pressure of being,
I thought angels yearned to be human.

To think for themselves.
To feel.
To love uncontrollably.
To be.

I was born from your weakness.
With futile hopes that longed to fit in crevices cut by man made earthquakes,
you are vines encircling your own tree.
Nature gives way for only those capable of survival,
you become nothing more than stepping stone.

Your writing a mere imitation of the greats, you have lost yourself in the midst
of finding yourself in the lines
of another's fantasy.

And yet, I was molded by your truth.
The little spark in your lungs became forest fire to every organ that lived by oxygen,
I saw in your eyes the value of life itself.
You are a product of all that you have passed,
all that has passed,
and all that will.
Your legs were made to dance to the tune of forever
but you understand that people like us are not built for infinity.
Limits are what keeps us on this ship with 50 years to go and an unwavering horizon -
I understand you now.

You were once untranslatable.

There were not enough languages to bring every part of you into existence.
And I am no strong believer of God but it is clear that you are molded from the same thoughts and feelings He was created from.
Pandora’s box is nothing more than a piece of furniture hidden
in your deepest corners, I have learned to love your varying degrees;
      you know who you are.
You are the heart beating within this body.
The veins that pulse, that yell ‘I am alive’ to a world that once saw you walking stone cold, stone walls;
      you know who you are.

You are the beginning of this poem.