i grew up in a room with movie posters and glow in the dark butterflies, drawing faces on the walls with chalk, and never straying far from my kingdom of bed sheets and pillow cases.

you grew up praying to god that the thing you called your family wouldn't break like everyone else's had, and hoping that the places you traced your fingers over in your dusty atlas actually existed.

but your dysfunctional family did break, and your 3rd grade teacher told you that those far off destinations were real, but that it was unlikely you would ever get to see them all.

i grew up on historical fiction, penny boards and rock and roll. My only god was springsteen, and i held faith in the belief that i truly was "born to run."

you were raised on pick up trucks, bluegrass tunes, and the moonshine that your father turned to after a hard day at work. you were destined for a life full of nothing and clocks stuck at 2:59.

happiness had always come bearing sticks and stones and run down chevrolets, and all the rain signified was that it was time to open your grey umbrella again.

you only ever saw me in black and white, and i've always believed that i speak the language of loss far more fluently than most people i know.