Where are we going?

I… I’m not sure. Home, I guess?

Where even is home? Your parents’ house? Your friend’s?

…No.

Then where?

I’m sorry.

For what?

For not being able to answer your question. For not being enough?

…

For being me and not someone else.

…

**?

Yeah?

I love you.

…

For what it’s worth, you’re my home.

…

I think you might be mine as well.

to my imaginary lover,
I wish you were here,
cuddling me,
together cozily in the warm
blankets,
with my hands in your
pockets,
so you can chase away
the iciness from my fingers.
but there's no way
that could happen, hmm?
you're just imaginary,
after all.
a figment of my
imagination.

I doubt you enchanted me through your eyes,
or inebriated with love potion in disguise,
Was it your elan that hit my nerves
Or the conversation we had fermented into addictive wine,
Maybe you are the sorcerer, performing tricks on the heart of mine.

that’s the curious thing
about memories you see;
no matter if you’re thinking
about the best ones
or the worse ones
they each leave you feeling
a little emptier afterwards.