have you ever thought about the fact that the middle of nowhere is rather relative and that way too many of them exist for them not to be places that we can point to on a map
nowhere is black sand and scorpions under the covers glasses on a waitress and pink hair on another thinking about you more than i probably should seeing snow on mountains before ******* her being twenty and too afraid of kissing an italian at a bar midnight on the airplane for a christmas without the family time away from you when i wanted nothing but to be next to you carrots in tomato sauce before cards and welcoming gestures all the people and places without a poem that deserve one silently realizing that this may be everything i'm seeking a shoebox full of polaroids but no pictures of you the truth in flesh to prove my dreams are real twelve countries and zero sense of home anywhere but here
the middle of all that looks a little like the time i did too little and said too little when those three little words proved to be the biggest of them all
when the train started moving you didn't look back
Your face reminds of the places I want to visit. As your hands explore, I’m reacquainted to dreams. I find my thoughts after aeons in darkness as we sit cross-legged and chat. Thoughts of wonder commence as you curl your peach-coloured lips to read me poetry. I can feel a heart beating through those lips. The rumble of your heart makes me discover that I have one too, though stunted by the lovers I never met. I ask for you, and you agree.
PS: The heart remains stunted as I never meet this lover.
On the 11th month, the 11th day, at the 11th hour, Meagan wore her poppy on the right side at 11 O’clock, just like her father, John McCain taught her. Holding her newborn girl Liberty close to her— and taking care not to disturb the many small flags proudly fluttering— she placed another exactly the same way on his grave just kissing the white granite words PRISONER OF WAR LOVING HUSBAND FATHER AND POPPA.