“I wrote many poems about her and held her so close to my heart that she did not even knew a place there.”

Losing her was plenty.

No matter what I do I’m still not the best writer for you.

I still see you in my dreams, teasing my feelings and damaging my heart.

You’re rare, which some people don’t care, but I do.

The words that appeared from my Ink where that could describe my love for you.

As my heart began to melt this is what your Emerald eyes do to me.

This time I’ll be better for myself, at least for myself.

I love you but your eyes didn’t see my worth

You’ll heal after this painful chapter.

I hope you could see how blind people see the world with their imaginations.

She was just my kind of poetry.

You’re always welcome if you find someone better than me.

She built walls to protect herself from intruders who made her feel unworthy.

Many people can write, but only the rare can understand the pain behind your unwritten emotions.

I still write poems about you, when I know you never write about me.

We forgive people in order to give peace for ourselves.

We only see what we want to see. Usually it is ourselves. Look closer. Tilt the mirror so you can see more. Beyond self.

The kingdom of God is just behind the darkness of closed eyes, and the first gate that opens to it is your peace.

Hard to sit here and be close to you, and not kiss you.

I closed a lot of doors, that used to be wide open. Bolted them shut so you couldn’t break them down again.

We never grow closer to God when we just live life. It takes deliberate pursuit and attentiveness.

Life can’t give to you if your hands are closed. Open your mind, open your heart, and open your arms.

Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure.

Judge the Catholic Church not by those who barely live by its spirit, but by the example of those who live closest to it.