Think of how many heartbreaks you pass on the street.
These passengers wait for a body's arriving, but find out that promises weren't made to keep.

Look at the person beside you that's touching your knee.
Put a hand on his or hers if that's what they need.

Find the desperation in the traveller's being.
Don't do like the rest and ignore what you've seen.

I have no idea what home is for me anymore.

It's not the third house this year, with new housemates and a pile of bad memories on the shelves. I don't care about the twentyfive pairs of heels in my closet. I never feel content with travelling home.

It's not my mothers place, not since years. There's a mixture of scents in the air there. Fights and anxiety, depressions and stubborness. But I still come there all the time.

It's not even the place where we go camping, though the rocks feel like freedom and I feel far away from all *******.

I used to think it was in somebody else's arms, but I can no longer believe such.

I hope one day I'll tell you how the green inside your eyes outweighs the brown and when I stare in them to long during an unaware moment I see the forest that I used to walk through as a kid when we visited grandma.

I should talk about the way the left side of your lips curve a little bit to the inside of your mouth when you think of something funny and that's why I always kiss that corner of your mouth.

How your hair, that's always a little too long, smells so safe and I spend nights with my nose in there because every breathe makes me realise I want to be with you like this forever.

And I truly hate your sense of humor and your favourite songs but we take having breakfast to a whole new level. The way you love food the same way I do and I never want to eat somebody else's omelettes.

When we lay in bed together, all I can think of is how I want you closer and my body reacts to your fingers like it has always been waiting for them to unlock it.

You are the love of my life and I can't wait to meet you one day.

This isn't about love.
There's no point in romanticising me living on a couch.
Mom, I am so sorry, I can't come back again.
But I love you.
This isn't about love.
Maybe about karma.
What goes around steals your belongings and asks you back the key.
And my backpack is so heavy.
(How did I fit my life in there)
But my feet aren't tired yet.
Let's try Rotterdam
I hate that city but
This isn't about love.

I lost my house tonight
And you have a girlfriend but
Your voice made me realise I
Want a boy that can write me songs
And play them for me

One that doesn't care about his clothes
And has too much hair and a beard
Weird things like your ***** pack

You made so clear tonight
Exactly what I want and
That you were made fo-hor me

If I could I would have hidden the pills and never wear my robe.

Is that why you left, baby?

I could have closed my eyes on nights like this instead of latching onto you.

Would that make you stay, darlin?

I should have laughed at none of your jokes, nor cried at all your kisses.
Let your hand go in public.
Take your t-shirt off.
Left.

I could have tried to love you less, would you still love me, honey?

Those nights my bed always felt like it was shaking, but now I realise it was probably just me.

Five milligrams to hold on to this time. I hope the eyes-closed-visuals won't return or the strange noises in every music, even Jack Johnson. I hope I won't go back to looking back at a day and feel as if I just wasn't really there. That cold feeling in my neck can stay away from now on.