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We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.

Andrea Gibson

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Andrea Gibson
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: August 13
Poet
Calais
Maine
Andrew Gibson
Different
Forgetting
Breathe
Reasons
Forget
Reason

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You never wish on shooting stars. You wish on the ones that have the courage to shine where they are.
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I am living today as someone I had not yet become yesterday and tonight I will borrow only pieces of who I am today to carry with me to tomorrow.
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Cause I might be naked and lonely Shaking branches for bones But I'm still time zones away From who I was the day before we met You were the first mile Where my heart broke a sweat And I wish you were here I wish you'd never left But mostly I wish you well I wish you my very very best.
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We were all born on days when too many people died in terrible ways, but you still have to call it a birthday.
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To think, a sweater, is made entirely of knots. My stomach could clothe a village.
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We all have bullets beneath our skin we pray our lovers won't flinch at when they find.
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I know a thousand things louder than a soldier's gun I know the heartbeat of his mother.
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You keep worrying you’re taking up too much space. I wish you’d let yourself be the milky way.
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Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.
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Someday we will dare to trade good for true
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Every lover is a storm chaser. Every good heart has lost its roof.
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I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling good. I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling bad. I wanna know the first person who taught you your beauty could ever be reflected on a lousy piece of glass.
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I'm good at loving books. I'm good at loving soft bed sheets. I'm good at loving coffees and teas. I am good at loving things that can't love me back, that don't have the power to leave. And maybe, that's why I love them.
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The holy have done more damage to this world than the devil ever could.
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Love isn't always magic. But if I offered my body to the magician, if I told him to cut me in half so after that I could come to you whole and ask for you back would you listen for this dark alley love song? For the winter we heated our home from the steam off our own bodies?
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I’ve written this poem before but always through a window, never through an open door.
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But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back.
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How many wars will it take us to learn that only the dead return?
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I don't have a single plan for my life more important than learning to love people well.
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If you’re handing out flashlights in the dark, start handing out stars.
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