there's people who only realize they miss you after they spend three drunken years without you. there's people who will never miss you, no matter how much of you they took, no matter how much they make you miss yourself and your sanity, not even after nine years. there's people who miss you all the time, even if they just saw you yesterday, even if you're standing in front of them. there's people you'll never feel complete without.
we all have that one person that our stomach clenches for.
we all have that one person who ****** us up completely, who ruined us for anyone else who might try to get close enough to touch us where it hurts, and where it doesn't.
we all have that one person who we say, "i still love you to death and everything, but not in the same way, not like before," to when they say "i just know some day i'm going to want something with you again".
for some reason, we always want to go back to what we know. we fear the unknown. we crave comfort and familiarity. we go through our days looking for something to call a home, a safe structure to seek warmth in when the streets of our heads start freezing. something we know. a home. we look for one in books, in movies, in music, in places, in people. people are dangerous. people are toxic. it's ******* unhealthy, the way i'm always trying to find redemption in people. i can't tell you how many strangers i have woken up next to without remembering ever falling asleep. they were never home. they were never you.
for a long time, i didn't know what home was supposed be. everything -everyone- always felt so temporary. i led a nomadic lifestyle. i spent a lot of time with people with hazy eyes who laughed while blowing smoke between their teeth and woke up on floors. i spent a lot of time with people who didn't mind walking through graveyards in the middle of the night. i spent a lot of time with people who didn't mind me laying on their driveway and who were willing to let me wear their shoes when my feet got too cold. i spent a lot of time with people who didn't understand any of it. i spent a lot of time with people who didn't care to. then, i spent a lot of time on my own. i learned a lot about how to be with people when i was busy being alone.
there's comfort in lonesomeness,
not in the same way that there's comfort in waking up next to a person who loved you enough to lay on a bathroom floor with you after pinning you down to a bed and punching holes in the walls when you couldn't find the answers he thought he deserved, but in the same way that there's comfort in wanting to wake up next to a person who you love enough to let him touch you where it hurts, and where it doesn't.
a sense of home is something we create because it's something we yearn for. home is anywhere you want lay your head down to rest at night. home is anywhere your feet touch. home is the boy whose kisses linger, who smiles when he looks at you and traces star patterns on your back. home is safety.  home is what we know, and familiarity is strange.

there's a difference between listening and waiting to talk and it's important to be with someone who wants to listen to you as much as you want to listen to them, even if it means that someone is you, even if it means you only have yourself.
listen, you can spend your whole life talking and still not be heard.
how terrifying is that?
you can spend your whole life screaming at the top of your lungs and still not be heard.
HOW TERRIFYING IS THAT?
too often people stop listening before you stop talking and the most important things are lost in translation.
i love yous are cut off by the hurry to get nowhere fast,
by hanging up the phone two seconds too soon,
by shutting the door too quickly behind us.
we need to stop shutting the door too quickly behind us.
one day, there won't be anyone left on the other line to pick up our 2 AM calls.
one day, the phone will ring and ring and ring and nobody will ever call back.
one day, the door will be permanently bolted closed and you'll be left knocking on an empty house until your knuckles bleed. there will still be no answer.
our time is so limited.
so really, what's so wrong with saying all the right things at the wrong times instead of never saying them at all?
what's so wrong with moving too fast, with being desperate, with dropping i love you and i'm so sorry and i miss you as often as we drop see you later?
what's so wrong with knowing how permanent goodbyes can really be?
what's so wrong with knowing that when you're six feet under, no one will be able to pry your cold, hard lips open to spill all the words you took to your grave?

i think the sky has lots to say to us but we never care enough to listen.
i think that at least once in our lifetime, we need to step out of our bodies and into somebody else's.
the world holds a cacophony of deafening sounds
but don't you dare for even a second think that is a bad thing.
the sky keeps saying
LISTEN TO SYMPHONIES OF CATASTROPHES AND CREATIONS. LET THAT BE THE MUSIC THAT GUIDES YOU.

we have forgotten what's important in life and i think the sky keeps trying to remind us that money is worthless when you're dead,
that there is more good than bad inside of everything and everyone,
that fighting will never stick to our hearts more than the image of watching someone's eyes flutter open in the morning,
that the only times you should worry about the weight of the world is when the people you love don't pick up the phone anymore.

Well, we were the History club rejects,
focusing on the effects
of being us
instead of in a book.

Two college drop-outs,
calling in shout-outs
to our friends,
hoping that it affected
how we looked.

Our dads would sleep in,
and our moms were crying
until a quarter past noon --
and we knew
if we didn't start trying,
that would be us, soon.

We were the starving artists,
painting fruit we couldn't afford.
Hoping each brushstroke of an artichoke
would be fruitful to our wallet,
or at least strike a chord.

Two love-loss orphans,
dreaming of morphing
into something or someone else.
But they told us
to remove that fluff
from our head
and put it on the shelves.

We were the film club fanatics,
studying the dynamics
of how to be a pretend person.
We wanted to be
a Wes Anderson flick,
but we were never any thing
other than who we were
and that's what made us sick.

And I swear I miss the desperation:
I'm nostalgic for yesterday's conversations.

I take pictures of clouds I make wishes on trees I appreciate honey, the hard work of the bees
I smile at the sun and I embrace the rain that trickles down in patterns on window panes
I laugh with the birds I gaze at the stars and wonder if they know what life exists on Mars
I admire the universe and all of her wonders
She only creates masterpieces, never a blunder

Go to the concert of a local band you've never heard of or have a water balloon fight at 2 am or go to a new restaurant you've been wanting to go to, but for god's sake, stop falling into the idea that you have to be traveling all the time or have tons of money to have incredible adventures and make your life mean something.

(Some of the best advice someone has ever told me.)

I was flying high
Breathing stars and tasting light
And then I woke up