The young Milton that speaks in this sonnet already bears the hallmarks of the solemn, passionate author of. Towards the ambivalent final lines.

I want to say something nice to you. Light like a feather, comforting like a raindrop. Like night, your own. I want to let you hide how you want to. But I also want to help you come out of your hole and be,. What you want to be. I want to gift you all the courage in the world,.

With the coffee cup in hands,. Calm, soothing morning breeze around. Walking along the empty shore. Do you still reminisce? About my broken heart,. Your cold, dark soul. Because, my dear! The waves have been wildly splashing. Along the edges of my feet every evening. And so is the mood of my thoughts. And the feel of my eyes. As if, the roaring sea-water. Within its wide, compassionate chest. Is hiding so silently, my pinching grief.

Of life, love, loss and longing. I see you in the yellow of wild sunflowers. In the gold of wheat fields. In the dark green of conifers. In the aquamarine of the lake. I see you in the purple of lavender fields. In the violet of 4am skies. In the subtle pink of the sunsets. In the orange of oceanic vistas. I see you in the cool of shady canopies. In the moist of dew kissed grass. In the foam of sea waves. In the light brown of the sand. I see you in the brown eyes of the little girl.

Satisfy what we have in our chests. Build up nothing but memories. In a lake so far. In the woods so far. To the beats of our hearts. In the streets so far. In the skies so far.

Every time you refuse to acknowledge. In the hope that they. And call them gorgeous instead. Actually putting yourself on a pedestal. That they being who they are. In their shape and their form. For you not only to refuse to. You can call a fat person. It just feels that way.

8220;Where can I send these words, I write? March 11, 2015. This suffocated flesh, I carry, makes my chest so heavy. I rise and I fall.