he stares at me with dedication
never batting an eye

he never does anything more than stare,
as if i am his constant line of sight

a coincidence i suppose

but unlike the others,
he never darts his eyes in a new direction
when mine meet his

we are in a staring contest
me and the boy across the room

not a word said
never a sound made

maybe tomorrow i'll run away
to a city i've never seen
and play music i've never heard

maybe i'll meet a boy
who has no destination in mind,
but a plan to go anywhere but home

maybe we'll hold hands
and cross oceans together
never a word spoken between us
but an understanding of the wonder at hand

maybe we'll hike mountains
and scream our lungs out at the top
open our arms and hear our echoes
through the vast plains upon us

maybe one day we'll be treading through the snow
with frost bite noses and persisting hearts
he'll look at me and without saying a word
i'll know, this was his home all along

collect our memories in a box
and take them with you
wherever you may go after me

carry it under your arm
as you tread along new grounds

and when you miss me
don't bother to shoot me a text
or **** me with the tease of your voice

just open up our box,
my scent spilling over the edges

peer into our past
and dissolve into the memory of me once again

This is the color of my walls at eight am
a little light a little dark a little I don’t know if I want to try yet.
“Just say they’re yellow,” I am told.
Secretly, I think they doubt that too, that sometimes they wake up and see the not-yellow.

This is the color of my walls at midnight
a mess of thoughts, making a Gogh at it. I think maybe there’s a little red mixed in sometimes.
“They’re not red,” I am told, again.
How could they know, do they watch my walls at night? I wouldn’t mind the company.

This is the color of my walls at eleven am
a cave I wish I’d never tried to leave at eight am, a cave of moss and wood and rivers.
“No plants grow, no waters flow in there,” I am told.
I can’t hear them, because I am in a cave and the water is rushing too loudly.

This is the color of my walls at three thirty pm
just a little bit like sleeping, more like a cocoon, nothing at all like leaving.
“The walls are dead,” I am told.
But maybe they just wish they were, so they wouldn’t have to listen to their colours.

This is the color of my walls at this time
maybe pulling, maybe pushing. I think that one is yawning, that one sighing
“Don’t listen to the things walls say,” I am told.
Aha, so they HAVE heard them too. My walls make them miss the colors of their walls. Aha.