This is for an angel: she'll never really leave our hearts.

Funny how you never realize just how delicate life is until it's gone. 

Because it flies away just as quickly as it came.

Butterfly wings and aching hearts; the sun will still set, the sun will still rise. 

The sun should have burnt out with you. This world is a little more empty than before and the space that held you to the ground still bares your name.

Sierra, Sierra, Sierra.

Between clouds and gravity, the wind whispers it, the trees hold it, the stars have written it among the skies.


Tears are being shed for you, and candles have been lit in your memory.

Grown men cry; all the tears in the world have come together in one place. Remember, remember.

There's one more angel in heaven, and it's you. 

Funeral flowers are the most beautiful kind of sadness, and small coffins are the worst. 

Somehow you're still here, and we're still stuck in the time you left-tragedy has a funny way of sticking around; days, weeks, months.

There are too many things that don't matter; life can be cut short in a second. Tragedy like this isn't supposed to happen in real life, it's not supposed to happen to real people.


I guess it does.
 
Here's some news: People never really leave us; it's the best thing and the worst. It's what keeps us going and staying. You'll never leave us, and it's what makes me want to be better.

Bruised and hurting you took your six years and left this world for a better one, you claimed the heavens as you left, you became whole once again.

I know you're happy, and I know you're safe. Accepting that for what it is, is as easy as taming a hungry lion. It takes time, and time is everything we have. 


I'm writing your name in my heart, and I'm pasting it to the dust in my bones.

I'm going to the stars, and I'm taking your memory with me. 


This was the hardest thing I've ever written.
Forever Yours,
Rachel.


P.S. If you want to know exactly what happened to my mother's sweet little cousin, please click here.



 

Something Honest.

 

All I care about is poetry, and a boy made of smoke.

I want to travel to Paris, and I want to live in an apartment made of perfection and beauty, a place I can do all the things that matter to me. Here's the catch, I want to live with you.

You're the smoke and I'm the fire; or maybe it's the other way around.

I'm not a fighter, and I never have been. Right now, I wish I was. I wish I fought but I didn't and I wish I told you I might have loved you but I didn't and I wish I kissed you but I didn't.

I'm leaving this place and I'm never coming back. I don't regret that decision, not for one minute. My soul has been tortured for too long, and my heart has been stomped on too often.

I'm leaving and I'm not coming back.

I'm not worried about myself, I'm worried about the future. I've never been there, and I don't know that I want to live there. I've heard nice things about it, but I've also heard the worst.

If I could visit, I'd stay for a day or two. I'd visit the tourist spots, and the spots only you know, because you'd be there. I'd find out the bad things, and the good things, and I'd keep those things in my pocket. I'd write the good things on my arms in pen so I wouldn't forget and I'd let you keep the things you wanted to keep because that's how much I care about you.


You taught me more than you know, and maybe one day I'll be able to use everything you said and I'll be able to forget about everything I wanted.

I was told you can't be a writer unless you write something honest. 

Here's the honest truth: I miss you.

I've never said that before and it's the most honest thing I know. 




Forever Yours,
Rachel.