let me take photos of him. he doesn't have to like it.
- have beautiful taste in music
- speak English as a second language
- love the sky
- love the ocean
- love the woods
- bike for hours with me
- cook with and for me
- be great with kids
- love traveling and adventure
- have carefully-thought-out philosophies on life, love, and everything in between
- make me laugh for days
- balance my intensity out with being chill
- call me beautiful in the morning
- read in cafes and on trains
- not care about material things so much as experiences
- know when to give me space
- write me letters
- go on picnics with me
- eat copious amounts of cheese with me
- love The Beatles
- love the feeling of high places and l'appel du vide
- become friends with my friends, but have his own
- drink tea or coffee
- sing in the shower

i. in my dream, you ask me to connect your freckles with my 19 coloured pens. i create the constellations reflected in your eyes. you kiss me. i wake up.

ii. you ask me to play the bars of the same song that made us both cry and shiver on different continents before we knew each other. i leave the airport the happiest and the saddest i've ever been. happysad.

iii. you sing at 3 am at the back of the bus. i sit at the end of the same row. my head hurts from banging against the window while i try to look at the moon, instead of you.

iv. we sit on the tram and pretend to fix all your problems.

v. i sit up at 2 am and cry at my mistakes. i wonder if i make you the happysad you make me.

they asked her what she wanted to be
when she was older
she replied “Lady Liberty”
and draped a toga around her
star-freckled shoulders
tissued fabric kissed her toes

she plucked a torch out of thin air
and shot it through with lightning
electric burns drew delicate scars on
the canvas of her forearms

the sun crowned her as a saviour
and the moon wrote love letters
while the sea-salt spray of the untameable ocean sang
a siren song of invincibility

and, with a wave of her hand,
the doors to freedom flew open.

our tram rides are loud
words spilling out like loose rice
scattered round our feet
bright blue, silver, darkest black
jackets soft and warm
eye contact that lasts too long—-
immediately
overanalysed, I know.
my wishful thinking,
it often gets out of hand.
walking in the dark,
my hands are cold and lonely
our eyes glance sideways
too much, and yet too little.

it’s 2 am here
and it’s 2 am where you are
i don’t love you;

i hate that we both shiver at
the same bar of the same song
the same seven words.

and i hate the millions of melodies
that i’ll always associate with our summer
and the autumn that didn’t belong to anyone.

but i love your voice when you’re not speaking my language.
sing me to sleep in your language and i’ll love you in mine.

and i love the music you send me.
it sounds best at 2 am
when my toes are cold and you’re in
the midnight sun.