fireproof

it’s like getting into the water at the beach: you wade into the surf a bit apprehensive at first, even though you’ve done it many times before, and waves crash not too far in front of you, and the water is actually shockingly cold like it always is, but you suck it up and walk deeper until the water swallows your knees and creeps up your thighs, and then while you’re still trying to ease yourself in, that unexpected wave hits you out of nowhere and soaks you completely and suddenly you’re in much deeper than you originally thought, and now you have two choices: fully commit to the cold and dive in, or chicken out and run screaming back to the safety of warm sand and beach towels. what i would give to have the option of the latter one more time—because im currently adrift in open water on this poor excuse of a boat with no rudder or anchor, miles away from any beach or lifeguard or oversized towels. and my god, it is cold.

i didn’t notice the water seeping through the cracks until it was too late—i suddenly felt cold fingers wrapped firmly around my ankles. wet socks aren’t the most pleasant thing in the world but i wasn’t worried at first; it happens sometimes. ill just squish around for a bit and then my shoes and socks will dry off. but after a while the feeling in my feet begins to fade; my toes curl and prune until the numbness starts to reach upwards and now i can’t feel myself standing anymore. it’s uncomfortable but manageable for a while, but the rising water isn’t satisfied with just ankles and socks. it wants more.

so i grab a bucket and begin the uphill battle of repelling the icy invaders that have laid siege to my lower extremities. at first its not so bad; i make decent progress, scooping and tossing gallons of water over the side of the boat. but my arms begin to slow and my back starts to ache and no matter how much water i scoop out, more pours in to replace it—and somehow it never ends. scoop and toss, scoop and toss—nothing changes. not sure which is worse, the fatigue or the frustration. draining the boat is draining me too.

soon my body begins to resist the elements and the exertion. my arms fall heavy at my sides, my legs cramping and quivering in the cold, my lungs begging for rest, and everything in me screaming for relief, threatening to give in and turn me over to the raging seas—a mutiny in my muscles. visions of floundering in open water triggers my deepest fears. the water inside the boat continues to rise with my anxiety. i kicked the bucket across the floor.

panic gives way to plan b: find the leak.

i scurry around, nose to the ground in my best bloodhound impersonation, sniffing about furiously for any clue or inkling of the hole in the dam, the mole in the org, the chink in the armor that must be the source of all my troubles. what did i do wrong? how did i lose track of the shore so fast? how did i ruin this so badly? but as the water continues to rise, my search yields no results and im in deeper than i was before, expending energy i don’t have to find something i can’t see.

arms and options exhausted, i spend the last of my strength throwing overboard everything that’s not nailed down to try to satisfy the sea and somehow lighten the boat. nothing is safe: my dusty collection of 1981 baseball cards, old backpacks, worn hoodies and dirty socks, my Playstation, dusty karate trophies, used english textbooks, a bag of rocks i collected in Israel, the ugly writing desk in the corner, a busted camera and eight thousand useless photos, nineteen pair of Vans, a stack of my favorite spiral notebooks, a pair of high school/college crushes, the only three friends that i care to text back, two hours of troubled sleep, one fistful of empathy, my last sliver of sanity—all up and over the edge. and somehow, ive managed to feel hollow and still heavy at the same time. maybe the means we use to keep the water out are worse than the water itself.  whatever floats your boat, right?

but we’re past that now. now the only thing that’s still floating somehow is me, and the ship isn’t the only thing ive abandoned. everything i am consists of keeping my head above water and im already losing that battle. the parts of me that aren’t already numb wonder if it’s even worth the struggle.

my lungs fight for one more breath because that’s what lungs are supposed to do, but it doesn’t matter now. water overpowers them too, kicking down the doors and filling all of my empty spaces with dark and cold. everything begins to fade away as my favorite Mac Miller song sloshes around in the back of my head just out of reach… i swear that if i drown i don’t care…  slipping beneath the surface almost feels like being tucked into bed, like going under at the dentist’s office but without the roundtrip guarantee, falling deeper and deeper in slow motion.

just as the last bit of feeling leaves my fingertips, right before my eyes fall asleep one last time, i see it—walking, no swimming towards me? both above and below the surface, closing the distance, coming, arriving. i have water in my eyes and i can’t see straight, but last i checked lighthouses aren’t supposed to walk on water—or anywhere for that matter. but here you are, calling, reaching, flooding in and filling the room with soft light like a perfectly-timed late night text message of encouragement, gently overwhelming me with a genuine smile in a sea full of false faces, walking me back with a welcoming touch when all i feel is falling to the ocean floor. i don’t even possess the strength to kick back against the waves anymore but it doesn’t matter; now we’re surging upwards back towards the surface and the sky, out of breath, out of reasons, and suddenly out of the water.

next i know, im belly up on a beach coughing up half a lung as those same waves that once held me under now play sheepishly at my feet. i can’t tell if the sun or your smile is warming my bones now. dramatic? maybe a little. but until a few moments ago, i was six feet underwater—and now because of you, my most immediate problem is the sand in my shorts.

maybe it was the lack of oxygen to my brain, or the seaweed boa-constricting my neck as dark waters closed over me; maybe it was the months of sailing in circles on a mangled boat while already waist-deep in water—maybe you really were just in the right place at the right time? maybe it was pure luck? divine intervention? maybe you, out of the kindness of your heart, really did reach into a hurricane and bring me back to shore, daring to dive into deep waters to fetch a floundering sailor who wasn’t even sure he wanted to see the surface again.

i don’t know how to properly thank you. i don’t know where to begin. all i have on hand is driftwood from my sorry little shipwreck, some seaweed still wrapped around my ankles, and a fistful of rocks that were supposed to take me to my resting place.

im no craftsman or artist but i tried my best to fashion you garments fit for a guardian angel, straining to shape soggy shards of wood into a frame for the wings; the kelp i twisted into a seaweed halo to crown your head, and the rest braided into rope to tie the wings between the shoulders that carried me to safety. i stacked the rocks from sand to sky, rebuilding the lighthouse for you to shine brightly in once again. a bit much perhaps—but maybe i just need someone to look up to. the whole thing probably looks really ridiculous: this smelly kelp-covered contraption that i haphazardly strapped to your back without bothering to ask if that was okay—or if you were okay.

it lasts for a short while, seaweed wings watching over me in case the waves come for me again while we try to figure out how to get off this empty beach. until one day the wings accidentally catches on fire, the rock tower crumbles beneath your feet, and my makeshift monument burns to the ground before my eyes. as i watch all my hard work (and part of your clothes) go up in smoke, i realize for the first time that i was wrong.

in a moment a courage, i assumed you were always fearless. in a moment of strength, i assumed you had no weaknesses. in a moment of selflessness, i assumed you were invincible. when you reached down and pulled me out of my darkness, i thought you fell from the sky. i was too busy trying to keep my own mess afloat to see you treading water beside me, swimming up from your own depths that i knew nothing about to rescue me from mine. i was too busy drowning in my own ocean to notice. i just assumed you were fireproof.

so now we both sit empty-handed in the sand: you, singed; me, still soggy and very sorry. guilt sticks to me like my wet clothes, the shame lingers like the stench of the seaweed. it’s not your fault, it’s nobody’s fault, it happens. but i should’ve known better. everybody falls sometimes—but when you took that spill off the stupid pile of rocks that i put you on and out of the neat little box that i put you in, i took the harder fall back to reality. and it stings more than the salt in my eyes.

i was halfway into burying myself in the sand headfirst when i noticed you collecting the charred pieces of wood, the torn rope and the scattered rocks, and you quietly went straight back to work, gently guiding the broken pieces back into place and mending the holes like you’ve done this before. my temporary shelter isn’t even finished yet you’ve somehow summoned one more round of strength and courage to press on, to set sail and get back out on the water. i can only watch in awe. i know you have places to go—i mean i do too, no one wants to be stranded forever—but im not ready to take that plunge anytime soon. but you won’t let that stop you, i know better than that now. maybe ill understand it all on the other side of my storm too. im still new to this sailing thing but you—you’re something else.

so as you board another boat to cross another ocean, my heart sinks for a different reason. but i get it. i understand. it’s calling you too. if the waves can’t hold you back, how could i? i know this isn’t your final resting place and maybe it won’t be mine either.

you’re probably a bit wary of me trying to thank you, and rightfully so, but before you go i want to try one more time—no strings or wings attached.

thank you for swimming with me.

i squint into the burning sunset as your little vessel descends below the horizon out of sight. waves still crash and crackle longingly at my feet.
there’s salt on my cheeks.
my socks are still wet.

“all because of you
i believe in angels
not the kind with wings,
no not the kind with halos;
the kind the bring you home
when home becomes a strange place”

- ‘the good left undone’ by Rise Against

benchpress

its clawing at my face again
but i can barely tell anymore
not sure if thats good or bad
the fact that you can see every rough day and bad week ive had
through the dirty tear stains on my glasses
is not attractive
i don the plastic fabric again and again
waiting for some sort of magic to happen
but thats not how it works
it barely covers the scars
i should know better, this always hurts
but pain can be numbed
and because im really dumb
i abuse it
using because im losing it--
losing it because im using it
but i gotta have it, i cant face you without it
im an addict--but im masking it

there's supposed to be a purpose for all this pain
but the hurt and the dirt lurks so close to the surface
i cant contain it anymore
its about to break the skin, burst through my shirt
rearing its ugly head screaming "dumb stupid WORTHLESS"
so forgive me if im a little uncertain
if the doubts start to resurface
someone please convince me
that there's some sort of lesson or gain
on the other side of the pouring rain
that the sun still exists on the outside of this hurricane

the chip on my shoulder is growing and morphing
into a boulder i can barely carry
im walking funny from the weight
its noticeable now--thats the part thats really scary
when i said i was fine
i wasn't lying
i was trying to prove myself wrong
i was trying to will myself to be strong
but that didn't last very long
i guess i was kinda right about being wrong

itll work out in the end
dont feed your doubts
i wish it was that simple
i wish i could just bleed it out
i wish i could benchpress this weight off my chest
and finally be able to rest without forever being paranoid
about which part of me is slowly dying no matter how hard i try
to keep moving forward, to just keep going--
but no matter what i do or what i plan
i do what i can but it feels like its out of my hands
maybe one day itll count for something
but right now everything amounts to nothing

its mad tempting to just stop trying sometimes
its easier to just keep crying at night
its easier to let tears fall like fruits overripe
than to try to fight all the feelings that keep me wheeling and dealing with god
just to keep a straight face
to remember that i do have a place here somewhere
its easier to turtle up and hide from fate
to smother it all, to stay lost in the fog
to just forget it all

maybe this is just words on a screen
maybe this is as real as it seems
if i mean it in the moment
but when the sun shines again i disown it
is that a bad thing?
maybe its the doubts speaking
or my demons screaming
maybe the real me is down there somewhere
barely breathing
ears ringing
somehow clinging to the smallest shred of the one thing that holds any meaning
maybe im just daydreaming
and one day ill snap out of it
or maybe this is who i am and what ive become
im not proud of it
but if these feelings are real i cant just leave them be
to keep them crowded in the back of my mind is a dangerous game
if they win ill lose me

just let me rhyme its my disguise
everything i hold inside will be my demise
you'd be surprised at the things that pass through my mind
maybe the light was always there but now im blind
i know this isnt it
but i cant see outside of this
and even though i have ink on my arm to remind me otherwise
admit there was at least one night in your life when
you didn't know if you would see another sunrise

so restless
still feelin helpless
i know harming/killing myself is not the answer and maybe a bit selfish--
i wont get there i swear
ive stopped pulling out my hair
its a start
deep down in the bottom of my heart
i know this ugly weather wont last forever
i know even though it feels like ill never pull myself together
if/when i finally make it through this shit ill better for it
ill do better than this
maybe one day itll be fuel for some quality art
i dont know
but for now
i must quiet myself the only way i know how:
let it go or let it out
as you can see and read i chose the latter
because sometimes no matter what you do
some things wont ever let go of you
maybe i need to re-repent of my sins
maybe i need to think things through again
but before anything else, before i decide what to do next
i really just needed to get this off my chest

moths and mosquitos

the frigid air cut through my clothes and burned in my lungs.
i don't know how long i'd been out here, and i didn't really care.
indoors was too smothering, like the ceiling was slowly melting into the floor and threatening to crush me in the middle. but out here--too cold, too exposed. tonight the sky seemed as empty as i was, hanging there in silence high above me and my problems.

i finally stopped running and collapsed on my knees, out of breath and out of options.

footsteps? 

let them pass, maybe they won't see me.

and if they do? well, everybody has bad days, right?

or weeks... or months...

i can't be the only one.

the footsteps grew closer,
and as i stared at the ground hoping to evade eye contact at all costs,
i saw him.

i saw him moving slowly, a single silhouette on the ground.
he dragged it behind him on the cold concrete, his movements heavy and pained.
it was mangled and twisted, definitely broken.
he struggled to pull his lifeless leg along, to keep pushing through the pain, to keep going--
but it was useless. the end was near.
without help, he would die soon.

another figure emerged from the darkness,
and i saw hers too.
they hung unceremoniously behind her, lifeless and torn.
once her pride and glory, a work of art that used to shimmer in the light, her instruments of escape from the ground below to whatever heights her heart desired--twisted and bent out of shape.
ripped from her shoulders.
she was grounded.
no flight, no food, no light.
she would die soon.

i see them both now, on either side of me:
two wounded creatures, a moth and a mosquito, crippled and maimed,
gingerly stumbling around in the darkness, unknowingly drawn towards each other by some unseen force of destiny or fate or cruel luck.

and it was too late to turn around now.

he hobbled a little faster. he knew it was ugly, twisted into unsightly positions. he only hoped she wouldn't stare. maybe she wouldn't see it.
her gaze fell immediately, tears welling in her eyes, ashamed of her scars.

i watched, my heart in my throat as the distance between them slowly disappeared.
they neared, they almost touched--
and then they passed.
they walked right through each other without so much as a glance or a nod of recognition,
eyes averted, wounds too deep.
they vanished into the darkness once again, fates sealed.

i couldn't breathe.
a voluntary death sentence. a double suicide.
why? 

but i know why.
i know all too well.

it all came rushing back to me: the fleeting glances, reluctant smiles, mumbled replies, and trembling voices--how many have i seen in my short existence? how much more have i missed because i turned my own eyes away, trying to disappear into the sidewalk? how many have i shouldered past because i feared my own scars would be exposed?

i shoved my hands deep into my pockets.
guilty.

you'll see them too if you pay attention:
stragglers with their hearts full of holes, believing they are damaged beyond repair,
carrying the weight of broken wings and the fear that they'll never fly again,
destined to die alone.
but most of us are too busy licking our own wounds to notice the one quietly bleeding out next to us.

the night is full of these poor creatures;
hopelessly awake, sleep far from their minds.
some wander about, simply searching for warmth and a light for their darkness.
others roam with teeth bared,
seeking to draw life from another warm body to ease their own pain because they themselves have become cold and lifeless.
the night is home to two kinds of creatures:
moths and mosquitos.

i made myself a promise:
i will never turn my eyes away again.
but it's hard. sometimes it's scary.
some days i feel like a dead man walking,
a zombie,
too scared to look you in the eye for fear that you'll see what's really behind this thousand-yard stare,
knowing all too well of the pain that lies beneath.
but a promise is a promise.

so when i saw her standing there, wings in a knot, eyes swollen,
i panicked.
what should i do?
i see her, but now what?
is she moth or mosquito?
does it matter?

i began to draw my hands out of my pockets and then stopped myself.
there's glass under my fingernails, and my veins are full of crystal, sharp and fragile.
im a mess of delicate parts and precious pieces, molded by a shattered past and an uncertain future. my feet are raw from walking on eggshells, trying to tiptoe over the jagged shards of my broken heart without getting cut. it's pretty tricky sometimes, trying to carry it all without bursting.
but today, i have blood on my hands.

i faltered.
i am made of glass--lost, broken, invisible.
i can't fix you.

does it matter?

i fished for words,
for some enlightened, encouraging one-liner to neatly fill the hole in her shoulder where her wings used to grow, to dry her tears and set her back on her feet in one swift motion. the hole was ugly and deep, like me.
but i had nothing. nothing to offer but silence and blood-stained glass.
crystal began to tumble down her cheeks,
and in a moment of terror, i lept towards her,
running to catch the little fragments one by one before they hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces, each one making little clinking sounds as they collided and mingled with the shards in my palms.

and there we sat:
her shoulders shaking gently as she cried,
and i, gingerly cradling a handful of tear-shaped jewels that could be hanging on a necklace or a large chandelier somewhere. the pile in my hands grew heavier as they hardened, and small cracks began to emerge on my arms and face, ominously crawling about and threatening to burst as i struggled to hold it all together.

the first rays of sunrise began to creep over the horizon, dancing through the precious stones in my hands, casting small rainbows of light all around and warming our tired, dirty faces. her breathing became regular again, rhythmic; no more in little gasps straining for life. felt like id been holding my breath for hours.

the sun continued to rise, smiling down on the two survivors,
two wounded creatures--
broken,
but no longer alone.

trickor[tr]eat

are you sure this is the right house?
the masked and cloaked figures beside me nodded vigorously. this is it, this is the big one.
i could almost see the prize on the other side of the door, i could almost taste it.
the mark had been made, the ambush set.
now we wait.
is it supposed to take this long?

the front door flies open and we leap into action,
shrieking the magic words in unison:
trick or treat!

our merry band of costumed children zigzagged across the neighborhood,
doing the very thing our dear mothers always warned us to never do:
approach unfamiliar houses, knock on the door, and face the stranger behind each one
for one reason only:
to collect and consume as much sugar as possible.
it was worth diving through the scary graveyard decorations on the front lawn,
all for that pot or pail of edible gold on the other side, the promised land.
all consequences are hereby canceled until further notice--no rules, no regrets.
all shoved away into that imaginary back room we like to call tomorrow.
tomorrow can wait.
it always does.

but sugar and sweets is only half the fun,
because for one night only, we receive the best goodie of them all:
the temporary gift of a new identity
bestowed upon every soul who sets out to discover the El Dorado of candy caches.
you can be whoever or whatever you want--
isn't that the best part of being a kid?
the possibilities are literally endless, limited only by the boundaries of your own imagination.
the makeup, the costumes, the masks--they grow more elaborate every year.
painted faces and fake blood, homemade props and duct-taped cosplay;
miniature superheroes and beloved tv characters roam the streets to save us from
space pirates and walking tacos and oversized hot dogs,
from ghosts and ghouls out to claim souls and collect sweets.
the freedom to be who you please is such a treasure to be cherished--
but maybe we were too young or too busy chasing lollipops to realize it.
the chance to trade the prison of your own life for whatever makes your imagination
take flight, even for a few precious hours is its own superpower.
we can all be heroes, at least for tonight.

i downed the last bite of my third jumbo snickers of the night.
not about to admit that the third time is not the charm.
definitely doesn't taste as good as the first one.
my feet hurt, this plastic scratches my face; the cold whips right through my clothes.
thought this costume was thick enough to keep me warm, but ive been wrong before.
my stomach growls. reach into my orange pail of prizes
to find only melted chocolate and stale candy corn.
does anybody actually eat this impostor trying to pass as something yummy?
yet i find myself trying to force it down every year,
as if passing time will magically make the bitterness disappear.
time usually does the opposite.
my younger self used to dream of a sugar-tarian diet;
the next best thing to christmas every day.
but be careful what you wish for,
because it's all fun and games until you wake up with your stomach in knots
when last night's prizes eat away at your teeth
when you're in need of real food, but only surrounded by the delicacies of yesterday.
last night's high, today's low.
full of sweets and bitter as can be,
head spinning, wishing i hadn't been so greedy.
my most recent regret and my first hangover.
it won't be the last.

but maybe one night isn't enough.
maybe i need to be superman more than just once a year,
maybe i need to trade in my face on other days too,
on days when i can't face the mirror no matter how hard i try,
on days when i finally gather the guts to square up to my reflection,
he's nowhere to be found.

im starting to outgrow this, this hodgepodge of garments and faces thrown together
to fit whatever role i need to play today,
or whoever i need to be to get that door to open.
the growing amount of patchwork is starting to spread around the elbows and the knees like a rash.
i should probably just start dressing as a quilt. it'd be alot easier than this.
the possibilities that used to be endless--they now seem a lot less.

christmas every day isn't working out so well.

at this point, my mask is just a mask for another mask.
the eyeholes are crooked and in the wrong spots, the strap is too tight,
and it feels like im wearing layers of sweatshirts on a steamy summer day.
i can't breathe.
every day is just like the one before--different mask, same story.
the paint is starting to peel, the "T" has almost fallen completely off.
the pain likes to stick around though.
the pain of an empty, bottomless stomach that isn't content no matter how much i eat,
the pain of seeing the door crack open just enough for some faceless figure to toss me
empty candy wrappers if im lucky--
or sugar-coated heartbreak that'll rot a lot more than just my teeth if im not.

look, it's not even about the candy anymore--
chocolate melts and candy corn will always, always be terrible.
my stomach can't take it.

now i just cling to the faint hope that there's something more behind that door--
more than rehearsed greetings and fake teeth
and hollow pumpkins with smiles almost as empty as mine.
that someone will leave the light on for me,
that maybe ill have a bench to lie on, or some stairs to sleep under.
that maybe ill make it out of the cold tonight.
i thought i'd eventually find a spot in that front lawn graveyard across the street
sleeping with the skeletons and forever roaming with the ghouls
but it turns out im more hospital than cemetery.
don't need a coroner yet, just a hot meal maybe.

so no more masks, no more disguises; no more sugar, no more bullsh*t.
on a night when everybody wants to be someone else,
ill just be me. no more, no less.
just faint smiles and real blood.
and please, dont go easy on me. be real.
its the only way to begin to heal these wounds.

are you sure this is the right house?
honestly, im not sure of anything anymore.
if i showed up on your doorstep dressed as myself,
would you open up?

[cursed]

my biggest fear
is that these words i craft
the worlds i draw
the stories i work so hard
to make stand so tall
will fall like rain on dead dirt
on ears too busy to care
on hurts too deep to repair
to give a damn about little words
from a little man
with empty hands
with no future
with no real plans
so here i stand
forever struggling
to say what needs to be said
to live when its easier to play dead
to tame these thoughts in my head
that will surely tear me to shreds
if they ever escaped my lips
or rolled down my cheeks
or seeped from my fingertips
so it seems my fate is set
to either implode from within
or commit a sin i could never forgive
some days i dont know whats worse:
to reside in the back of a hearse
or die every night in verse
i dont know what i did to deserve this
but this is my curse

copy//write

i leaned over as far as i could

and tried to scribble a bit more while he wasn't looking.

maybe he wouldn't mind.

i used to wonder why he didn't come to class every day like everybody else.

does he think he's too good for class?

well actually, if you'd seen his work you'd probably agree.

he's one of those lucky kids who just happens to be gifted for no good reason. straight genius. he'd probably ace the class if he ever actually showed up or turned in work with any kind of consistency. he'll probably do some real good with his life if he ever takes his talents seriously. he'll probably get that same speech in the office again sometime this week.

he turned back around and i swiftly assumed the faux-relaxed, slumped position in my seat like i'd been there all along, like i wasn't wholesale lifting his intellectual property from under his nose.

dammit.

i'd have to wait for at least one more pass to finish making his work mine.

but how is that fair?

he gets to come and go as he pleases?

the rules don't apply to him?

guess not.

my side-eye has gotten so strong i can almost see my own ears,

bending my vision around his slumped shoulders to leech the last bit of gold off his desk...

whew.

got it.

i should really thank him for being here today.

i might actually turn in an assignment for once,

and he gets to raise his F- to an F.

everybody wins.

it's hard trying to pass off someone else's work as your own 

without possessing any actual skill.

unless the fine art of tweaking a little bit of him

to sound a lot like me doesn't count as a skill.

it's totally a skill.

because when he's not here i have to pretend im just having an off day,

or pull a page from his book and take the zero.

better that than admitting i forgot to wake up and bring my intellect to class again.

because when his seat is empty, i am too.

look, if we ever get found out:

that he's masquerading as a mediocre, could-care-less student

who will never get off the ground 

because he doesn't have the stomach to at least beat his wings and look skyward,

getting caught with his work in my hands will be the least of my crimes.

either way, we're still failing.

yeah, it still feels like cheating,

like i don't deserve him.

but maybe it'll work out;

maybe one day he'll take his soiled papers and vivid imagination

and never look back,

reaching outside of these four walls to do what people like him are meant to do:

change the world.

maybe one day, if we're lucky.

but for now,

as i watch him fall back to sleep on his desk,

it's copy and paste.

vow of silence

he slowly fingered a single piece of paper in his hand. the microphone hung in the other, eagerly waiting to project the sound of his voice throughout the walls of the chapel.

but his voice never came.

the jovial, bubbling guy from the day before was nowhere to be found--in his place stood a man preparing to pledge himself to one woman before his friends, his family, and his God. his eyes remained glued to the page, to handwritten words that would change both his life and hers forever, for better or for worse, for rich or poor, in sickness and in health. but those words lingered there on the page, they did not leave his lips.

the room shuffled and squirmed as the minutes passed but the expected awkwardness in the air was soon overtaken by a unified leaning forward in the seats, an anticipation, a silent prayer of encouragement--come on, come on. his smiling bride gently urged him on with stars in her eyes and patience in her posture.

but it wasn't fear that held his tongue. this was more than the point of no return. this was the beginning, a new birth, the final push as all ears strained for the cry of a single voice announcing the start of a new life, a new relationship, a new journey.

"that's a profound point there," the minister quipped at last. a collective chuckle rippled through the room, releasing some of the pressure that had steadily gathered under the ceiling and now threatened to start bending the walls.

"sorry," the man apologized sheepishly. "i guess ill just go really fast." his voice weak but still alive, he faced the page and his bride, and he vowed, he pledged, he committed.

but the minister was right. one man's silence rang louder to me than any other words uttered in that chapel for the rest of their special day.