She is disinterested in small talk beyond the park benches.
She longs instead for late-night confessions,
for the quiet unraveling between sentences—
the hidden chapters you both never dared to read out loud
She has no fondness for candlelit dinners
or anniversaries dressed in silverware and manners
What she wants is the open road at dusk,
the wind like a dare,
no map, no compass—
just the delicious risk of getting lost together
She detests the pop songs blaring from car radios,
those perfect little lies that everyone sings along to
She belongs to the sound of something raw—
a forgotten folk song, an aching guitar,
a voice that cracks where it shouldn’t
Her room is lined with vinyls and dust and memory
And no—she doesn’t want drizzles or passing breezes
She wants the storm;
The hurricane that splits her open,
the tsunami that drags her under—
because only in the wreckage
does she remember what it means
to feel