I want to whisper your name into my lungs.
Feel you sink into my nostalgia.
Because, It always comes down to "Where have you been all my life?"
My inner child screams, tears rushing down her innocents, that "It's not fair!"
My angst worn teen just rolls her eyes with her broken heart and Jane Austin hands.
My old woman hums "Love like there is no age."

Because it doesn't matter now, I can't see myself without you.
Ever...

And wedding dresses are all we have in common.
They hold so tightly that every moment stays interlaced in their very existence.
They will always have that one happy day.
One day that blends and binds they day after,
and the next,
and the next,
and the forever.

All tied with a white string.

Because red strings are too bold for your skin to bleed into.
So, I'll tie a white one around my wrist, so every time life looks down,
a wedding is all I see.
A wedding with you and me.
An alter with candles and flowers, on top of a hill.
We walk up like Jack and Jill.
But I have already tumbled after you, head over heals.

Love isn't a strong enough word.
Love is used by poets, authors, musicians.
No,
I live for you,
I live for you,
I live for you,
and I'll say it every time I breath your name into my lungs.

Have you ever sat in a vehicle?
While it's molten lava under the wheels, with no sign of an oasis?
And, with both of your parents?

The thought of pulling your hair out is only a stagnant relief for a few seconds before the route change.

ER or Mental Hospital?

Both of them asking about who you've been dating? What work is like? Saving money? How's you retirement savings plan coming up? You better take care of us when were old!

I can't think of worse ways to get anyone to crack.

Do they do this to interrogate ****** suspects? Because a lot more murders would be solved.

But when stories of you sick, young, crying over the toilet come up you feel like an *******.
They take care of you, they love you.

But let's just hope mom knows how to take care of you after you fling your maddening body out into the smouldering roadside.

Hopefully you wear something flammable.

I have spent more time,
in my pajamas than I would like to admit.
But I have spent more time,
missing you from our bed.

Something about yellow plaid and a white T,
that sends me over the moon
and landing amongst the stars.

Because you hold me up to a fame
that even Lucy in the sky with those diamonds
would be jealous of.

I will listen to you all day and never
ask you to pause, rewind,
or skip to the next song.

I have spent more time
in my pajamas than I would like to admit
But I would rather be asleep forever,
than awake and not dreaming with you.

There is no shame, in moving back with your parents.

To them you still smell of diapers and the time you puked jelly beans all over the back of the car after you tilt-a-whirled your “I’m a big girl” attitude into giggles.

Around them you still clumsily tip over you own puberty when they ask you to clean your room.

You’re still in college. And that diploma on your wall is still less of an accomplishment, than when you suddenly discovered your thumbs.

So, how do you cope with the baby talk condescension scribbled over directions to empty a dishwasher properly?

1) Realize this is just temporary. You have till you’re at least 40 to fix this.

2) Clean your room of all the embarrassing childish evidence (i.e. N’Synch Posters, Pokemon Cards, Ect) . When CSI comes in they will just assume you were visiting.

3) Take long, long walks far, far away from your residence. Preferably the woods, so you may not run into any high school nemeses.

4) Pray you can get laid by someone, your age. Preferably someone you have not had any prepubescent encounters with already.

5) Eat all the free food you can.

With theses steps you can safely avoid pulling out your own fingernails with the self-loathing hiding under your bed.

Do not let it fill your Pog champion hands with delusions that you have failed to tie your own shoes, let alone pay your own taxes or get married.

Might as well give up those big girl pants and open lid cups and go back to Sesame Street and ******* in your own pants.

This…

Is only temporary.

You must say.

A temporary walk through the woods. Praying to lay down relax, and enjoy the air you are still eating.

This is only temporary.

I promise,
to watch you everyday.
To like everything you do,
even when others don't.
I promise to share you to all of my friends,
but tell them I found you first.
When you need a smile,
I will make a gif of yours and watch it loop.

If better,
means making your view count higher,
count me in.....count me in a 1, 000, 000 times.
If worse,
means staying up past 3am to see your new video,
let me be an insomniac.

I will care for you,
when you catch a virus.  
I will never cheat on you,
with another channel of viewers.

I will subscribe to every,
heartbeat,
breath,
and click.
I can muster.

You are my tube.
and I promise to love you,
till we crash.

I'd give you
My stomach,
just to show you the caterpillars cocooning
into butterflies.

I'd give you
My heart,
just to show you how it stops
every time you smile.

I'd give you
all the moments I could hold in my arms,
Just so you could see frame by frame
how you have frozen every one of them.

And you might think that I am giving you
everything.
You are humble like that.
but you have given me
lengths of golden twine that you have
strung around my heart.
Making sure that everyday that I fall for you,
you can pull me back up
again
and again
and again.
You don't just pull on my heart strings,
you made them.

And when you cry it's like
rain on the wedding day,
that marries you and perfection together.
I could be your umbrella,
You could be my dream.

Because I have watched "Tangled"
way too many times.
And I don't want you to find a new dream.
I don't want you to scale a tower with my hair.
...although something similar would be nice.

But make us a fairytale.
One which makes little kids want to dress up
like us on Halloween.

Let me be your forever.
A fairytale about the girl who gave everything,
even the bones in her fingers.
To write about true love, about the one who gave,
everything in return.

Girl, put down the pocket knife fist and pick up that pen of yours.

stop...

They aren't worth the status updates or the 140 character #hashtag
They are worth books. Trilogy novels of witty 'should have' banter and Good wins over Evil plot themes.
Rake in the millions.

Then put down the skinny jeans and wear the Tutu.

stop...

They aren't worth the clone bulimic fashion trends.
They are worth ballets. Extravagant classical shows where millions come to see. Each one hanging on you like fish hooks.
Because you got that audience hook, line, and sinker.

Then, go home.

stop...

They aren't worth the boastful air you inhale.
Exhale humility and stories about best sellers and the view from a ballet hall in Germany.

You are worth it.
You are worth the pens,
and tutus,
and a home.