I waited once for someone to say the words. Two words that at that moment would have made a difference. I died on the hill that nite - waiting is the worst way to die.

So when he kissed me goodbye that morning last week, instinct said destroy everything before it has a chance to disintegrate. Sabotage what I was sure to prove would happen.

But some people were born and will die with innocent souls. No matter how many times they are left out on the ledge, pushed over the edge, loved and left for dead, no matter how many times the ice cream truck passes them by, ditties on by as they dash along beside, as sorry quarters spill from between their reaching finger tips, no matter how many times they have been insulted or left out, they will love. And love harder. Like a child, born brave, like they've never been hurt at all.

And they will cry. And cry harder. Every time they have words to say, but don't want to say them because it hurt so badly once before. I swore never again. I swore not the hill again. But instead, when he kissed me goodbye that morning last week, I looked into his eyes and said two words that were never said to me and would have made a difference:

don't go.



He went anyway.


I said the words.

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