I’ve seen my words carved in the arms of a stranger as they let me know, They watched their love die, but picked it up later when they found that rope. Some say you need to bleed to believe in hurt, Some say you have to scar to belong to her.
I’ll live alone and find my peace, I will slip into a…
Look at us, running around. Always rushed, always late. I guess that’s why they call it the human race. What we crave most in this world is connection. For some people it happens at first site. It’s when you know you know. It’s fate working its magic. And that’s great for them. They get to live in a pop song. Ride the express train. But that’s not the way it really works. For the rest of us, it’s a bit less romantic. It’s complicated, it’s messy. It’s about horrible timing, and fumbled opportunities. And not being able to say what you need to say when you need to say it.
I don’t know much about him but I’m kind of infatuated with this guy. Or maybe it’s the idea of him that I’ve created. I found myself thinking about him tonight on a walk under some makeshift constellations, struggling through the light pollution, fleeting thoughts coming and going like New England snowfalls. It’s not a lusty, I-want-to-fuck-him kind of deal. I want to hold him close and sing him soft rainstorm melodies and move him in a way that makes him feel unspeakably alive because there’s nothing that has touched him to the core like that in a long time. I want to bear my soul to him in the way that symphonies are written, so that at its completion, my story will have completely enveloped him like B minor at the predawn of a snow-covered day, and he’ll realize that there is nothing more painfully right than the overlap of the lines on our palms and all the countless intersections of his eyes (beautiful, sun-drenched) and mine.