My idea of a party is having sand in my hair while I smell of burnt wood and midnight barbecue
Music will be the waves that crash and return and messy chords on an acoustic guitar
And I will remember when we both wished that we could go on road trips on hours like this,
And how eventually time ran short for us, so we're finally here
I want to get drunk on the moonlight while I sip on yesterday's memories
I want to talk about the good times
I will fall asleep enveloped in nature's arms and dance while the stars twinkle high above

My idea of a party are late night drives and stops at gasoline stations at unearthly hours,
Conversations that result to slurred words and cackling with the windows rolled down,
Romanticizing over the architecture of rotting wood and crumbling concrete
Books and printed words under a flashlight

My idea of a party are rolled sleeves and roadtrips away from every soul and every touch of skin,
Away from the world, except yours I will never grow tired of

n.j.

I want to move on,
But I am stuck.
Stuck on the memories.
Stuck on what could've been.
Stuck on wondering what went wrong.
Stuck on wondering what more I could've done.

I am stuck on the way you made me laugh.
I am stuck on the way you held my hand.
I am stuck on the way you held me in your arms, as we gazed up at the stars on a cold December night.
I am stuck on our roadtrips and our perfectly imperfect duets.
I am stuck on who you empowered and encouraged me to be.
I am stuck on how you made me feel and who you were when I was falling in love.

Now, I see you,
And every time I do,
My heart breaks all over.
I see you talk to everyone else in the room, and bit by bit I fall apart inside.
I see you with other girls, encouraging them the way you did me at the beginning.
I see you moving on, completely unstuck,
Completely unphased by the torment I am in.

You made me genuinely happy.
Happier than I've ever been.
And I can choose to be joyful
and patient
and kind
and humble
and good,

But happiness is stuck in the past with you.

The beginning's are the worst for me,
but I prefer the middle, rather than the end;
I'll always enjoy the journey more than the destination.
Great for roadtrips, irritating for bedtime.

I've got baggage, but I don't want to talk about it.
I will listen to yours 'til the cows come home
(and offer you reasonable advice),
but I don't want you to fix me. I've been fixing myself for years.

I may leave you for the milkman,
but only because I have a longstanding relationship with dairy.
Take it as a compliment if I call you a cow.

I would rather help than be loved.
To me, they are not synonymous.
Just like writing in short lines
with even shorter
linebreaks
is not synonymous with poetry.

My rhyme scheme has little structure, but I expect your schema to have a story.

You have to play chess, but well enough to kick my *** occasionally.
Keep me humble.

I will probably be incredibly, secretly needy,
or ridiculously nonchalant.
What human being doesn't yearn for the other side of the looking glass?
My brains are always tumbling and rumbling, though.

Mister, you have no idea what you're getting yourself into.
Me neither.

I'd like to be protected by you,
even though I don't need it.
(I still believe in chivalry).
I like the idea that my honor is worth defending.

I'm still the same 3 year old soul, wandering around
with my microscope and plastic saxophone,
except this time it's linguistic puns and wh- questions
(especially why).
My favorite response being, why not?

I won't ask much of you,
just energy, a soul to squeeze, and a hand to hold;
a body to hug.
But don't worry, you'll get much in return
(probably too much,
at least that's what they tell me).

I talk too much, walk too slow, and am the most
awkwardpersonyou'llevermeet,
all tumbles and rumbles and wiggles.
But I've got a lot to say,
even though I'll always prefer to listen.

I want you to hit me
like a ton of bricks with good intentions.
There's a lot of fire, especially for you, young love.
My heart string and soul swing,
I am yours to mold and shape and croon
(but my heart is not an empty room).
You can move the furniture,
but once you hang up the paintings,
I might just want to keep it.

(That's what I'm worried about)
I want to set your world on fire,
and I want you to set mine alight
(but sometimes I lose the extinguisher).

I'm expecting
nothing
but hoping
for too much.
That's where my tongue gets tied-
I don't know how to take the reigns,
****** you,
or  make myself undeniable,
or irreplaceable.

I don't want to though,
because with enough time,
everything heals.
Memories are alive as long as you think of them.
But after you forget, they rest in peace.
I'd like to be your peace,
piece of apple pie, holy moly me oh my.

Don't fool my janglin' heartstrings
because they'll stretch andstretchandstreeeettch and bend 'til they break.

I don't like talking on the phone.
Make up your own ******* story.

Before this date,
I just want you to know
that I'm slightly crazy, completely ridiculous,
and have a few tales to spin from my fingertips.
(and I wiggle. too much)

I'll be your Jane if you can be my Alexander
or Tarzan.
Noah always needed a whale for his ark.
I probably already think you're funny and cute,
and I'll kiss you all starry eyed, my body swaying from side to side.

I actually don't know what I want.
But I'd like for you to be there when I figure it out.

"I hate roadtrips."
"Yer gunna love 'em when I'm gone."

All they ever had in front of them was road. They faced an endless stretch of asphalt and rolling hills that trundled lazily beside them like tired giants with aching feet, and they stared the setting sun right in the eyes. It was like looking into the barrel of a gun, and when the trigger got pulled, they both were bathed in murky night with nothing to guide them but headlights and starlights. Keegan Mac Namara was a road that Molly was willing to walk.

Their journey across the verdant farmlands and everlasting clusters of villages falling into decay was only five hours in, and they had three more to go. Molly knew that when they stepped out of the car again, they wouldn't talk, and they'd just smile and laugh and cry without a spoken word. Two of the saddest free spirits without moral compasses to keep them on track. Before Molly left, it was always like that, and that was the best part about it.
She had met him in a pub after Ronan's funeral, and for the six months after, they were inseparable.

Keegan Samuel Mac Namara was the summer in the winter of Molly's life, the breeze to clear the smoke left behind Finnian Aherne, the anchor which kept her grounds from shaking with the tremors and aftershocks of a toddler-sized earthquake and even after he died she could still feel the thrum of her heart in her chest with the thought of him, of them, of what they were, and what they could have been, but never became.

He taught her how to love roadtrips, he taught her to be free, and he taught her to love.
He taught her how to shoot a gun, he taught her to sing, and he taught her to love.
He taught her how to smile, he taught her to laugh, and he taught her to love.
He taught her how to love.

They never got married and they never had children and they were never official; he never gave her something to remember him by: only memories of long nights spent together in the back of their van making up stupid songs or the feeling of laughing so hard that she cried and her cheeks rushed red for ten minutes afterward or driving so long that they forgot where they were going and where they had come from.

When he died, there was no reason to make up stupid songs, no reason to laugh until her stomach hurt and she had a headache, and the ten thousand roads that they traveled together were just lines that kept them from growing too attached; even if those ten thousand winding roads failed at that.

He made her lose her way, and she never wanted to be found. He let her find out who she was by keeping the tempest at bay..

When he died, the storm was all around her.

Their love was a roadtrip away from the sorrows that everybody faced. She was just lucky enough to be asked along the ride..

"I still hate roadtrips, Kee." She can hear him answer, in his voice so low..

"Then I ain't gone."

Imagine seeing me one day after 15 years of not talking to each other. It will be on a local coffee shop where they have the best matcha drink one can ever dream of. You are sitting on the farthest end of the room, with an art book in hand; earphones blasting indie electronic songs you have been listening to u purposely use earphones to let people leave you alone. You dive in the world of art. Breathing heavily, you gasp for some air. You lift your head up to take a sip of your drink, and right when you’re ready to read again, you get distracted of a familiar voice.

I’ll be wearing jeans and my favorite A Rocket to the Moon shirt I got from their last concert. Earphones blasting their songs. A book in my hand, a pen and some paper. You smile upon hearing I got the same drink as you, watch me sat down on the corner, immediately opening my book (carefully).

You will watch me for some time and realize it’s just creepy so you gather up all your things and your courage, come up to me and say hi. But you stop and settle in the table next to me. I see you and tears water my eyes. You choke on your bagel. I stand up, sit next to you and say hi. You see the book I’m reading. It’s your favorite Dr. Seuss book. You will give me a look and I’ll start laughing. I will try to stop to tell you “I told you I read one page everyday.”

After that conversation, we will stay in touch. Not just in words but with actions. We will rekindle the love I believe never died. It will be a rocky adventure, but we will make it. We will go on roadtrips, blasting old Passion Pit songs. We will fulfil every promise we made when we were still in college. We will visit every island there is to explore. We will travel. Together. We will grow.

One day, I will wake up with the smell of pancakes you’re cooking for me. I will eagerly get up, shower you with kisses before I brush my teeth, and ask you if we have orange juice for breakfast. You will laugh (oh, that heavenly sound) and kiss me, saying, “You never liked orange juice. That is not welcome in our home.” I will pull you close and tell you, “You called it home, not house. That’s something.”

Soon enough, I will see you with our four-year-old wearing a unicorn onesie like yours, reading to her the Dr. Seuss book you gave me when we started our pause. You will fall asleep faster than she does, she will try to wake you up, I will stop her. I will tuck her in and carry you back to our room. I will watch you, and try to wake you. You will snore for a second, pull me in and tell me it’s time for bed.

I will whisper words before cuddling you to sleep again: “It was a rocky start, love, but I want to believe that it will get better. I’m going to make sure I’ll still be there to see it. I actually am seeing it now. If one draws attention to our cracks, they will just see colors that glued this wonderful piece together. We started with hickeys and matching shirts, let us end up with a shared surname. Can I just end with this note: Loving you feels very close to flying. Tomorrow I will ask you to marry me, I hope you say you will.”

It was the summer.
It was the summer
Of roadtrips
And heartbreak,
Of wave breaks,
And road rage,
And sunsets,
And guilt trips.

It was the best of times
And the fast of times
And the worst of times
And the last of times
It was the summer.

It was the summer of
Tollbooths and
Accelerating cars
And as quick as you go
You pull what chases you
Just at fast,
Newton laws,
For it was the summer.

It was the summer
Of never and always
Of fears and futures
Of clairvoyance
And of foolishness.

To look so on trees,
In Summer's waning scorch
And not see the leaves
Changing, is blindness.
But it was the summer
Of changes unseen.

Autumn slipped in silently,
Not through the back,
Like a servant,
But through the front door,
Like an assassin.

Words were had,

Shots were fired.

Summer is dead,
Cradled in Autumn's arms,
Green life turning to crimson
And yellow, and brown.

The past is only
As good as our last summer.
And this one, well,
It was the summer.
It was the summer.

When I  die
        (if my parents don't know)
        remember to weigh me judiciously with authorial intent.

Don't let my father go to the front
and tell everyone what a good daddy's girl I was
        how I loved fishing with him
        and wore my camo pants like a champ.
                                I was 2.
                                I didn't know better.

Don't let my mother's lip tremble
or let her say how much my writing made her cry
        how I spent my evenings worshiping textbooks
        and typing til 2 am for large red A's on my papers.
                                I was worshiping the body and mind of a guy
                                who never wanted me back.

Don't let my father see my body
        the tattoo next to my left hip bone
        the one I got my freshman year
                                because why the **** not.

Don't let my mother see my face
        the rings in my lip and nose and ears
        because they told me only ***** had those
                                and I wanted to see if they were right.

Don't let my father tell stories afterwards
        all my achievements and awards
        every 100% I ever gave.
                                He never told them to me.
                                He only has pride in the dead.

Don't let my mother tell stories afterwards
        because she'll get them right
        but tell them wrong.
                                She'll either laugh or cry halfway through
                                and I don't know which is worse.

Don't let my father sing the hymns
        or even say how much he loved hearing my voice.
                                I could never hear myself over him.

Don't let my mother lament that I never sang for her
        she knew why
                                she married him.

Don't let them tell you how I was a good Catholic girl
        who always went to mass
        and prayed the rosary on roadtrips
        and never ate meat on Fridays during Lent (not even on accident).
                                I stopped going to mass after freshman year
                                and never prayed while driving
                                and made it a point to eat as much meat
                                                            ­            as I possibly ******* could.

Don't let them tell you how I was a good sister
        how excited I was when she was born
        so helpful and caring.
                                She never fell off the bed when she was little.
                                I kicked her.

But especially don't let them trick you into thinking I was perfect.
        I do not want to be canonized by my parents
                who knew so little
                        and saw even less
                                because I hid myself away
                                        so they wouldn't be
                                                disappointed.

I­n fact,
don't let them come at all.
They'll be mourning the wrong girl.

The difference between work & play Is not that much.
It’s the difference between getting’ ***** & doin’ ***** deeds
Ramblin’ on long old roadtrips, old oaks,
And whatever happens in between
We tell odes

The difference between work & play is not that much
It’s the difference between broke bank accounts,
And boring accountants
Scrapin’ a little off the top here and there
To splash into Bitcoins
You’re still broke
But no longer boring

The difference between work and play
Lies in what makes ones days
And different amounts of up and downs
And days gone unmade,

Its not how its played
Its how one has lived

Remember you are living when you work
So  button up plaid shirt,
and go chop wood
in the dirt,

And let writing this poem go
And Let there be a sequel waiting tomorrow

heal the pain of having no money to play with in the working world
Only words.

Take me to cliffs, love. Push me off every single one of your cliffs. I am ready for the fall, no ropes around me, I will let my fear of heights swallow me whole. Is it still called fear if it takes me to the highest of highs with no need to scream?

Take me to oceans, love. To seas, lakes, rivers. Saltwater is healthy for the soul, love. If your tears allow you to quench the thirst to grow, I will let you wallow. I cannot swim but your love taught me that the deepest waters can only drown me if I let it. Drown me.

Take me to places, love. To roadtrips, car radio sing-alongs, sneaky hand-holding, and restaurant tables for two. Keep me company during campfires, uneasy dreaming, and watergun fights. I will build us a treehouse, overlooking all of that we wish to leave behind.

Take me anywhere you like, love. I am yours for the taking.

In a way, Mr. Nelson's death was the closest we ever got to him. It was the closest we ever came to solving his mystery. He had moved to our small town about five years ago. There were no boxes announcing his arrival. Just a small sign on the postbox and some flowers planted outside the door. Without the presence of moving trucks and their cacophony, he had inserted himself into the community.

We didn't know what to think of Mr. Nelson. We never saw him enter shops. He didn't buy groceries at SuperFoodMart, get his haircut at Barber Joe's, never browsed in the whimsical shops like Shelly's Seaside Surprises or Ahmad's Rugs, never bought clothes in K-Mart. Quite frankly, we don't know what he ate or what he used because there was never a garbage bin. In fact, we don't think he had ever walked down Main Street.

Except when there was a community event. He was always at every single Thanksgiving parade, softball games, and summer concerts. In various shades of corduroy brown and pastels in the fall and wide brimmed hats in the summer, Mr. Nelson would be there. He would never participate, never pitch the ball or cheer in the sidelines. Instead, he would have an old Nokia Lumia video camera, filming everything in sight.

Though no one ever asked him what he did with these videos, there were several theories. Ahmad thought he was a spy, a CIA agent in disguise, waiting to catch someone in our sleepy town. Joe thought he was a ******, reporting back to some godforsaken land in the East. Shelly thought he was just a creep, spying on women behind his sinister lens. We conspired together on back porches and cozy couches, on lazy summer days and cold winter nights. Some of us got tired of all the talk and tried to find out.

There were several attempts to infiltrate Mr. Nelson's house, both covert and blatant. The Betty twins hid in the flowerbeds, the Warden's daughter had tried to crawl in a window only to find that they were always shut. Mrs. Gilovich baked endless amounts of cookies, pies and casseroles only to find herself politely thanked and the recipient of a *** of jam on her doorstep the next day. One day, noisy Edna hobbled over and tried her trick of requesting water, but was greeted by Mr. Nelson at the door with a cold glass and a bemused smile.  

So concerned were we with Mr. Nelson that he came with us on vacations, on roadtrips, and even on our most solemn sojourns. In  hushed whispers he was summoned in distant lands. He skied with us over snow and water and was even known by our most tenuous relationships. It came as a surprise then, when on the last weekend of summer, we received an invitation to Mr. Nelson's wake at his house.

That Mr. Nelson had died was a revelation. Sure, he hadn't come to the last few summer shows but we didn't think too much of it. Still, it would be a lie to say that we were not excited when . Calls were quickly made to every house, to confirm the receipt of the invitation, to go through costume changes and appropriate greetings. How would we be greeted? What would we see?

Some of us, those of us who can never bear to wait, showed up five minutes before while some trickled in five or even ten minutes late. We came in clusters, hushed and energized groups, murmuring our condolences to each other. We were like eager schoolchildren visiting the Holocaust Museum, understanding the gravity of the situation yet unable to contain a sense of excitement.

In the end, we were sorely disappointed. His wife, who we had never seen before, greeted us at the door. We ate cheese and crackers while our eyes scanned every corner, attempting to ferret out an explanation. The rooms could have been any one of our homes, with furniture from last year's Pottery Barn catalogue. There were no hidden corridors, nefarious Communist propaganda, perverted sketches.As quietly and plainly as he had arrived, Mr. Nelson had bidden us goodbye.

For weeks afterwards, we exchanged ideas of what it could mean, what Mr. Nelson could possibly mean, what a life can mean. Once again, he travelled with us around the globe. Long after we had left our sleepy town, Mr. Nelson remained with us, filling us with equal measures of curiosity and dread.  What a shame we voiced, no one would ever remember Mr. Nelson. What a shame, we thought, that Mr. Nelson would outlive us all.

my feet are planted on these wooden planks,
the very separation of the soil beds and the stream. your hand’s quick to envelope mine in its warmth. dandelions dance with the cacophony of the breeze. the lighthouse stands tall a few distances from where we stood.
the sky gets littered by colors, sons and daughters of the sun bidding their farewell
everything within the expanse of the lakeshore showered in their translucence-
and quite frankly darling, we’re left with no exception.
you were staring off the distance
and in that moment you were almost miles away-but i didn’t mind,
for i was too mesmerized by the calmness
you were pulled under, the amber gold canvas bleeding in with the havoc it was pierced with.
i swear it was there where we’ve been in our safest state.
maybe that was our arrival to the once unknown destination we were targeting to be in all our plans to run away, fake our deaths.
we were a world away back there
and despite the sun sinking,
it breached the start of a hundred different voyages.
your presence was the closest i’ve felt to home.

in the expanse of a moment we were something more-something more than our sadness and all that we’ve stored in folds within the silhouettes.
and to a random onlooker,
we were just two kids content on being stupid and naive out on a chase for an i don’t know why the **** i’ve been put in this sick sad world but maybe we can stick together and make it ‘til we’re grey sort of happy ending.
to anyone else we weren’t anything but misfits, a pair lacking sense, knowing no better, junkies screaming out pent up emotions to rock songs on rooftops
or taking hairpin turns on 4am roadtrips that fueled the adrenaline.
thrill seekers, jaded
to anyone else, we were nothing more than a reckless pair almost making their way to the big screen or a typewritten poem the paper creasing on the edges.

but there we were made out of the sunset way past sets of bones and fractures by the sky,
the sunset looked like us.
now it’s months later, and we’ve let everything fade,
scratched out all that we’ve casted on the future, of long forgotten lullabies, null whispers- you’ve erased all our texts and chats,
in turn i have thrown out the flowers you picked and your book recommendations, the diy polaroids piled up in a box.
i stopped listening to all the songs you’ve sent. the curtains in my bedroom no longer match the shade of your hazel brown eyes.
the places i once brought you to are now ghost towns you’d get glimpses of in postcards 50 years from now-
at least that’s how they’re portrayed in my mind. but not without taking a drive, letting my footsteps baptize the ground they trample on with a feverish kiss,
one more time, one last time
clearly you’ve chosen to vanish, no traces left for a breadcrumb trail after that night at the diner where we spilled our closures
delivered with so much declaration,
leftover longing left caged in glassy eyes the whole time.
you stormed away with the last pieces of vulnerability, everything done with one final cruel exchange, just like that,
all my drunk texts a non-stop desperation reeking of “i love you’s” left to no reply;
that should signify that we’ve gone unto depths just to burn all our remnants
-maybe you more than i did.

here we are, free of the artifacts pointing back to each other,
from everywhere we’ve ever been
only to be proven of its blatant wrongness;
for we’ve forgotten about the sunsets but it sure as hell wouldn’t allow itself to be put to rest,
and it does the same thing with everything once marked by it.
you’re no longer here and our shadows have long unlearned the dwelling
once found on each other’s spines.
and maybe this you that never vacated my head even now, the one i couldn’t just bring to hate even after you’re no longer the you breathing softly beside the girl with twilight underneath her eyes.
but darling, the afterglows would pursue each time the sun sets;
each time, it unearths the glass shards from our fights and the longing and the butterflies crumbling onto chaos, our aftermath.
i no longer have an idea if you still marvel at the quiet like you once did,
as i stood there in the shades reflected by the currents under rushing with their beating.
“now we’re worlds away but sunsets still look a lot like us.”

You see, I’m in this
“relationship”
lets call her
“Kelowna”
for the sake of this story.

I go to visit Kelowna quite often.
Obviously, she is
Tall
Blonde
Skinny
and Stereotypical.
Do you have I type?
Because I sure do,
and Kelowna fits
the mold
I’ve molded
through
past loves
& thoroughbred
narcissism.

Kelowna’s personality?
Well, you see I can’t completely
indulge in that topic
for I only know what I choose
to believe, and what
Kelowna chooses not to tell me.  

I know she owns a cell phone
But, I don’t know her number.
But if I ever snuck my way in
to her address book - file me
under: Weird, *******, Dude.

For Kelowna - this girl is a starry eyed wild child
and my wild is too deeply rooted in weird
to perform the necessary High-speed boat maneuvers,
I’m assuming she is a fan of due to
my ruthless profiling of her.

Kelowna
is my great white buffalo
my blue French horn
my infinite fraction
the heartbreaker soul shaker
my mended heart
has been looking for…

all over Kelowna.



Luckily, there is this other woman.
For the sake of the story
lets call her
“Christina”
Actually Christina is her name.

Christina is that girl,
Who has always been there for me
When the going gets rough
When the money gets tight
When the heart first breaks.

Christina is a small town girl,
with Night Black hair that you can see stars in.
She has capturing lake blue eyes. She smiles
And always says hello
to strangers she doesn’t recognize.
She is pure, clean, and a
personal treasure of mine,
who will always be her own .  

I couldn’t tell you if Kelowna and Christina are friends,
because I have lost complete control of this metaphor.
But for the sake of the story, they are,
and although they live in different places
they remain courteous to each other
and curious of each others lives.

Christina has always loved me for who I am.
Embracing my flaws as though they are achievements
Worthy of being song lyrics, screamed on long roadtrips
for the mountains and the sky to nod in agreement.
Christina is so **** cool,
that I can even ask her to say kind words
About me to Kelowna.
And though she might not, she is always cool
And supportive with me asking.

I can see myself visiting Kelowna soon in the future.
And with what spare change I have I will make
Every attempt to wine and dine, and impress her
Every need.
For she is only what I want.

The funny thing is, that I don’t need the change.
I don’t need the dinner or the wine.
I need clear skies and the transitional period
from day to nighttime.
I need the sun, and the stars.
I need shallow water and a deep breath.
But for the sake of this story,
I expect everything to stay exactly the same.

And when I sing my song
with windows down
as I leave Kelowna
for my home town,
Christina will be there to comfort me.

**With starry nights and silent statements.

i never really understood what
"it comes and goes in waves" meant
but now i can see
no matter how stationed i am to the floor
imagining my feet are tree roots extending into the earth
i have always felt myself
falter with the tides heavy motions
stumbling along in a dance i dont know the steps to
falling face first behind the crowd of people who have got it figured out
jealousy hitting the palms of my hands before the asphalt
missing you is a constant heartrate
but these memories, feeling you so vividly it shakes me down
it comes and goes in waves

i never understood what
"time heals all wounds" meant
because my skin is painted with bruises that share no connotation with love
even when they fade i can recount the ache theyve left
like a worn out map
of every time i have pretended not to hear the exhaustion drip from your words
i used to hear your voice in my favorite melodies
and share my songs with you like lullabies
but now music is just noise to erase your voice
i dont think that time will ever take you away from me
i dont think i'd want it to

i wish on every flash of light and every makeshift airplane shooting star that i could leave the piece of me that can't stop thinking of you on one of these one-time roadtrips with no destination
no cliche seems to cover how quickly the word love disintegrates or how mixing up being happy with being scared is coincidentally more common than anyone would have expected.
i will forget this trainwreck you put me in
this half angry poetry you made me write
because even if it holds no meaning,
time heals all wounds, it comes in goes in waves

There is something
So safe
About a road
You've never been on

Fall in love with a dreamer and he'll make you a cup of coffee. He'll promise to read you books through the night and love, he will hold you tight. With the windows open, the two of you shall gaze at the stars. Listening to each other's future, he will hum you a song with a moonlight from afar.

Fall in love with a poet and he'll make you his poem. He'll weave your favorite letters as he soothes your soul. He will bury himself in your lines as he reads your fears. He'll share laughters with you and will add no grief. With a story marked, he'll make your love a history. And darling, his musings will be sang as you live through.

Fall in love with an adventurer and he'll take you to your fantasies. He will take you on roadtrips, on places you wondered to see. While your song plays loud on the radio, the two of you shall be young in time. You are free to live, to shout 'till your breath is gone. Losing in wonders with him has never been this fun.

And when you fall in love with all of these, you shall fall in love with your world. You shall live in your mind. You will be trapped in your fantasy. Your wonderland.

My love for you is a paper lantern lit in the sky
The northern lights in Iceland
Big Sur drives along the coast
Light house journeys
The hills behind my house towering my childhood
Walks around my neighborhood
The passenger seat in my car
Oregon and roadtrips
The grey stripped sweater that I sleep with every night
The plants that I desperately try to keep alive
Late nights on my red couch kissing each other, trying to be closer and closer
My 21st birthday in Napa when I imagined what living with you would be like as we sat on the couch in the hotel room watching dumb tv shows
Carriage Hills
Music that only you could ever relate to you
Words that only you would say
Lists that we created together
Random places where we've peed or kissed
Jumping into a body of water with you in the middle of the night
My love for you exists when i close my eyes because when i close my eyes and think of my happiest moments i see you

i hope it's okay
that i want to hold your hand all the time
i hope it's okay
that i want to kiss you all the time
and intertwine my fingers in your hair
i hope it's okay
that my favorite place in the world is right next to you
especially when you're sleeping and i can feel your chest move up and down
like the ebb and flow of the ocean
i hope it's okay
that your laugh makes me happy
and that your smile is something i survive off of
and that i do stupid things sometimes when you're sad
just to see that smile again
i hope it's okay
that i want to spend my weekends with you
going on roadtrips and letting the sun soak into our cells
listening to all our favorite songs
and realizing how bad they actually are and laughing at each other
because we can
i hope it's okay
that i want to make you happier than you've ever been before
and that i want to make you feel important
because you are
to me
and if that's the only thing i ever tell you it would be okay
because you deserve to know
and i hope all these things are okay
because i don't think i can ever not love you
but if you didn't want me the way i want you
and if you didn't love me the way i love you
and if you didn't want to do all these things with me
i would walk away
because you mean more to me than anyone else
and all i want is for you to be happy
and if i'm not enough for you
then it's okay

some say, if you pay very close attention.. life doesn't actually ****. I mean look at the weather, some days we see this beautiful flaming ball in the sky that makes us warm. or heck somedays freaking water just magically falls from the sky and if you listen and look closely it's beautiful. now for people, some can me cold hearted, rude, and judgy but that's only 10% of us, the rest of the humans are amazing and kind, innocent, imaginative, interesting and just ******* cool. as for education, you may hate it now, but once you get to college and get an actually job it's amazing. and that cute apt you've been wishing for in nyc, if you dream it you can do it. just keep learning and moving forward. now cars are the coolest ******* things ever, you get into a piece of metal and go anywhere. anywhere you want, hell u could even drive to Oregon right now if you really wanted to. memories, coolest thing ever. basically something that happened in the past that you can remember. and anything can trigger a memory. like a song, smell, place, person. a memory is the coolest thing ever because it's something you'll never forget. like your trip to six flags, your dad taking you out of ice cream when you got a good grade, Christmas Day every single year, visiting your grandmother, freaking summer memories are the best. even the little things are amazing, like good friends, earning money, eating your fav food, being fabulous, getting to *** after you've held it in for 5 hrs, disneyland, traveling, airplanes, roadtrips, taking showers, sleeping, laughing, dancing, swimming, reading, and even smiling. so the next time you say your life *****, just look at the positive things and I promise you, you will be happy again.

In the winter of my life
I don't miss my youthful body
As much as i miss my youthful spirit
I was full of life those days
Oh...what days they were!
Hanging out with friends
Going on roadtrips
Discovering,exploring
Constantly on the move
Boredom and loneliness were alien to me
My confidence was sky high
Sometimes i felt like there was nothing that i couldn't do
I had the courage to try new things
And now as i look at myself
Fragile bones
Grey hair
Sans teeth
Wrinkled face
Tired soul
Tired mind
I wonder-'what's happened to me?'
I have been told that it's all a part of the natural ageing process
But i still find it so hard to accept
I've tried to live the best i could
Sure i have regrets
But some moments of pride as well
I've seen the many facets of life
The many colours that it offers
I've seen the highs
I've experienced the lows
I've seen friends turn foes
I've seen war
I've felt love
I've seen days on the street
And nights on park benches
But i was strong then
I had the courage and the will to fight
Nothing deterred me or bogged me down
I've lost that strength now
Life has taken it's toll on me
I feel i can't go any further
What i miss most now is the joy of company
It's just me and the four walls
Sitting alone in my room
I wait for my time
I don't keep much news of the outside world now
I've virtually lost every connection
You see loneliness is new to me
And i'm not quite sure as to how to deal with it
So i guess i'll just be patient
If you notice you'll see that when you reach the winter of your life
The circle of your life is complete
In effect you are back to where you started
You become a child once again
It's like a man is reborn before he dies
While it's exciting to reach that stage
At times it's so scary
But then such is the journey of life
And i guess that's what makes it such an incredible experience

To escape
The horrors
And reality
Of life
Is enjoyable

May it be
Roadtrips
And city lights
Or highway reflectors

May it be
In relics
In museums
Or paintings
In hallways

May it be
In dark movie theaters
On summer nights
Or in sunlit parks
On summer afternoons

May it be
With the love of your life
On condominium balconies
Or on soft beds

Escape
The reality
Of the cruel world

Letter

What exactly do you want from me?" She asked tenderly. Her eyes searching mine for an answer, compelling me to break my silence.

Me? I don't know. I've said that enough through my eyes but if you want me to put it in words so I'll explain it in the most obvious way. I want you. Your attention and your time. It's not that I'm some crazy psychopath dying to get an eye from you. I'm just a splintered soul who finds his solace in you.
I want to be with you. Either in person or just clung to your thoughts. I want to wake up next to you, to see your serene face shrouded with dim morning sunlight. I want to wake you up everyday differently. I want to giggle around you and to see you giggle with me, to let your laugh echo in my room of silence, sedating my soul, letting me feel vibrant.

I want to cook with you without thinking about our bad cooking skills. I want to twirl around you sheepishly while trying a hand in cooking recipes that are way beyond my capabilities. I want to sing dramatic duets doing salsa on our kitchen floor. I want you to make faces on having my delicious food and appreciate my horrible cooking experiments to save me from getting dull.

I want to have a garden full of roses and lavenders to water it with you and then playfully want to get indulge into some water fight against the green grass. I want to see your wet face with perfect smile laughing girlishly to let my head imagine how beautiful you must have been in your teenage.
I want to have pets with you. I want you to hold my hands to make me learn how to play with them touching their fur and befriend them without running from them. I want you to entangle your fingers with mine while crossing roads where I can barely open my eyes. I want you to cover me in crowd. I want you to hold me right to let me know you care. I want you to respect my tears knowing this heart of mine is fatuously emotional.

I want to sleep peacefully against your heartbeat, giving rest to the storms of my head if only you know I'm an insomniac with millions of mood swings. I want to ***** about how my workplace ***** and then rest my head on your shoulder crying myself to sleep. I want you to cover me up when I throw blanket in midnight. I want you to rest your head against mine to let me feel your warmth while asleep to fight back each witching hour of darkness.
I want to explore the world with you. That never meant to go on trips that are beyond our financial potential. I want you to wake me up in midnight to take us on some adventurous roadtrips to explore the fun we've missed while living and running this futile race of life. I want to drive insanely to scare the hell out of you. To go on long walks in cities of no recognitions and unknown faces. I want to go on adventure sports with you. Hiking up the mountains, diving skies and waters. Hence plunging deep in the ocean of togetherness.

I want you to surprise me on my birthday at 12 when I'm least expecting it to be remembered by you. To see you sing a happy birthday song and realise how horrible your croaky voice sounds. Yet the butterflies in my tummy flutters to show how elated they're to found you. To just get cute notes over fridge, desk and tv saying how annoying I'm and yet how my presence makes you feel alive. I want to have intellectual conversations about love, life and future yet I want to suddenly turn the table towards lame dance numbers. Dancing with you till my feet ache and breathing gets shallow.

I want to unravel secrets you've been concealing from this utterly judgemental world. I want to sit on rooftop at 2 am with you talking about how life must've origined and why death is scary. Admiring stars, moon and chattering about galaxies. Foremostly I would like to get lost in the galaxy your deep eyes allure me of.
I want to watch some over the top emotional movie and end up curling in your lap crying my heart out. I want you to pat my back and tell me how it's just a movie and my dumb head need to fathom out the difference. I want you to startle me with bitter truths rather than soothing me with comforting lies.

I want to lend an ear to your pain and smile in your contentment, I just simply want to be with you, till my breathes last and to make you feel whole with me. Holding your hands, fighting, reasoning, laughing, blushing and living I'm just a young mind with an old heart, heart which may not necessarily believe in clichéd fairy tales but wants to feel that corny romance, romance that's beyond age and time, time that binds our hearts together to make our own little infinity, infinity that entwines our dark souls conjointly.

I just want to get old with you, that's all I want.

i'm running out of things to distract
me from the milky skyline
and patchy green, and
i'm running out of ways to push away the sting that comes with
being reminded of you whenever i
take roadtrips and
holidays that are meant to be serene.

why can't i just forget you?

When I picture us together it's almost perfect.

We always have a blast, laughing together and talking about everything and nothing.

How beautiful it would be to add summer dates, roadtrips, singing in the car and kisses to that.

But that picture is cracking.

It's getting clearer that we will never be.

It hurts. My god it hurts..

You must be feeling it too, but something is holding you back.

I think about you all the time, and what we could be.

How do I bury my feelings for you when you make my heart skip beats when I hear you laugh and smile at me?

How do I let this go when everytime you look me deep in the eyes I just wanna kiss you?

I really really wanted it to be you, I wanted you to be the one that could love me the way I deserve because oh boy how much I liked you. I asked you if there was anything else we could do, but you couldn't think of anything... you couldn't say anything to make me stay because I knew I had to go. It was hard because you weren't doing anything wrong, but neither doing anything right. And it was ******* hard because the part of me that died for you was having trouble accepting the fact that you and I are not gonna happen. I cannot think of you without smiling and crying at the same time, at least for now.
You were what could've been but wasn't, you were the one I hoped one day we'd do roadtrips with your sister and her family, you were the one I hoped would send me flowers, and surprise me with a kiss, and take me to places, and share memories and moments. You were the one I thought I would take with my family on vacation. You were the ******* one I thought we could go swim and walk and talk and fall madly in love. I close my eyes and I see us holding each other so tight and so infinite... I want to remember us in the rooftop watching the sunset, but more than that, I want YOU to remember it. I have to let you go, but please... don't forget me.

that history happens in america -
it's hardly a history as: historicity and more
showbiz...
        such that there's a trickling down...
it must be a dilution...
            nothing as spectacular
as: all eyes on h'america...
                                and elsewhere:
"elsewhere" the hobbits as such:
the whittle people of whipped cream
and croissants...
                   even france in the anglophone
context looks like a pompous,
powdered and pampered cuckoo and ape...
or germany... a somewhat feral
elevation...
             but it's not like in the realm
of the english-speaker there's any outside
influence...
          say... reading an essay by
milan kundera -
                              the: this, that and the other...
for a spectator - it's hardly
belittling pointers...
            after all... to expect a harvest
of something irish...
                         dunces and collateral...
not the irish...
     the figment of my imagination people...
the sub-membrane of tick-tock
glue and societal prospects of oiling and gluing
together...
       in the advent of the current "crisis":
but since this is not ancient rome...
  but it is given the replica coliseums of football
events...
    hardly a concern for: bread & circuses...
oh the bread, the bread is plentiful...
the circuses... well...
              fear is mighty entertaining...
as i walked through the labyrinth of outer-suburban
streets at night i had a thought:
which didn't evolve into a narrative...
or a river or how... the very large
could ever fit into the very small...
that there could be some mundane pickpocket
of detail...
     it was only a grand:
how best to return to our own little hell...
   to the pickled juices...
to the softened tendons and cartilage...
to edible sinew...
  to ****** at marrow cooked tender...
                 this personal little hell...
with a heaven a grand scheme of loosely
associated democratic pillars...
kept in tow like apparitions of formerly
used dog leash and muzzle...
   however: to be best reminded
about the disparity between the french
and the talk of ***...
                   the english and...
                                    the puritans...
but moi humpty-dumpty...
          sitz on zee fences among the whittle
people making concessions
to the: beside the altar...
              rather... the confessional cubicle
of mother russia's 'oomb: dangle the W
or the apostrophe and: extension...
  i.e.       wording: 'omega...
                      or... 'omicronomicron...
         woe in the wooing wool tangle...
   or at best: label everything erotica!
             call arachnophobia... erotica!
                the clickbait cider bubbling style...
mania-tripping at seeing numbers
from a grand void of 0 views
prop themselves like... elder judges
of the republic of mushrooms...
              teasing the project of investing
in hallucinogenic-will gangrene of
ingested: soap-water gurgle...
                    passing into the aether!

words more words and no great story...
hell... bordering on borrowing
a greek letter / two...
culmination?
          to have to jest at america...
given... the predisposition of knee-****
reaction of the upcoming event...
it's a teasing...
            in summary:
i believe that there's an america...
that only happens... in america...

i have to reiterate this...

i believe that there's an america...
that only happens... in america...
   which is: beside the cultural export
machinery of the film...
and the... well... perhaps the music...
perhaps a book... or poem...
but not really...
            the film... most certainly...
ford & film...
                   but it's hardly a mercedes
and a heidegger...

forever america: the church burden...
    and for such a protestant sensibility...
nearing a return to the outdated
               catholicism...
because not of the ritual... to be taken seriously...
it's that the ritual is a prop...
so to... take thinking seriously...
which is a complete inversion
of values of the protestant guise...

the lack of pompous rituals to make
thinking a serious affectionate prefix
with no real borrowing of a definite noun definition...
that the protestant has no...
lax in the ritual: sleeze out a seriousness
of "thought" - or rather...
this overt self-consciousness
introspect...
                     but to hide behind
the "taking it seriously" eucharist...
this blanket of metaphor...

       or... american high schools...
                   casual clothing...
                          otherwise in england...
a "catholicism" of...
less the schooling and more...
       uniform binding "******" & "bistro"...
metaphors no metaphors...
best: misnomers...

                              in between:
a solo and cross-"country" roadtrips of
the american youth...
                     from the outside in...
well... it's hardly a country...
         croatia the size of Illinois:
hypothetically...
            cross-continental...
and leading toward borrowing something
from... so anywhere to go...
anywhere to be...
it's hardly reverting back
to some proto-lingual dutch... lisp...

all the world in the cusp
of your hand...
but the inability to revert and find
a return to... the zenith period
of ol' merry england... dickens...
here outlasting the empire: morphed...
barren land with a continuum
of a loot of souls...
once the barbarian local have dried up...
which is... unlike the story
of the spanish tongue...
which was never going to be
a competition with the french...
who merely nibbled at some variation
of elsewhere...

         of the little people and the little
places...
beside the whole mongol-esque
landmass of russia...
                  which is a quickly equipped
revision of mc'edonia...
            
the odd promise of: only via new york...
we congested european rats...
but in the open country...
and to travel to america for the fetish
of a road-trip?

       what about pablo coelho...
notably... it would take... a bilingual...
knowledge of dickens and cervantes...
and laughing at aztec bones talking
backwards... rattling...
then the pristine "impossibility" of not
moving anywhere... expecting...
telekinesis and telepathy in a *******
town... aspiring to a prayer to IT...

        i'm a very simple person...
notably when i speak...
but when i write?
language tends to... over-complicate itself
without my wish...
perhaps i would like to tame...
expand... peer at a pop-sized audience
of a harlequin romance novel...

i've been to russia...
trains...             trains...
all the way from st. petersburg to moscow...
there's no concept of a car...
there's the train...
siberia is allocated a mention
of a train artery...
   i'd like to visit the faroe islands...
and... the kamchatka peninsula...
             alaska...
          given: what is stockholm, venice...
paris... athens... barcelona...
tying myself to a source of story-making...
story-constipation...
       cosmopolitan bravado...
              but... in the giggling recluse daydream...
of somewhere like...
            
     why this forever not... settled...
tongue tangle of lost geographic extension of detail:
to the ******* moon?!
now: nearing the impossible...
no wonder the nickname of english cricketers
is... tourists...
which they are...
                      but not for the love of god...
would i want to start of
a railway line to replica artery and veins
in africa...
      this... malevolent philanthropy auspice...
tour two:
i have more regard for
a misanthrope than
a philanthrope... given the categorical
imperative: Kant mingles with Tao:

maxim: the best way you can aid the world...
is for the world to forget you...
and for you to forget the world...
which is somewhat a conundrum...
                i.e. by some famous taoist...

i much prefer: tease at the world...
to play a commitment to a body
with a toying of an overburdening shadow
"suitcase": thoughts bent toward
hades...

  how the russians never invented
a narrative tied with a car...
or a horse... or a train...
given... that "enough" of siberia...
i guess... the nature of english...
it has to be exhausted prematurely
with inhibitions of...
island genesis...

             ants in your pants:
to the moon and back...
by way of bystanding...
the hebrews are shy nomads...
the arabs are wannabe and camel jockeys...
the hebrews are shy nomads
and the english... am i to be guilt
riddled by learning / borrowing /
not speaking in tongues / accents...
anglo-whale and the hebrew glitterbox
of details...

and i too took to a road-trip in
an adventure bias of taming the impersonality
of the ego: that automaton
of grieving a collected
           shy and shadow fancy of spew
my numb prospect of the disused
muscle... stiff coming
as with the prospect of a snake making
me be startled...

            always darwinian a priori...
like some copernican heliocentric primordial...
SONST-WOHIN

      some variation of the fwench "other"....
sonstwohin is a dasein...
beside a fixation on the golgotha...
  mirrors and mirages...
frogs and testickles...
                           tatar stakes and Kiev
contested between proud Muscovites
and sorrow-riddled-Pruß...

who could have been traced back
to the concept of shoelaces
with the Lithuanians, the Estonians...
the Latvians...
if there was a lessening of pressure
from the Scandinavian tribes
to excavate a modern presence...

can't we call the english the ulterior
semites?
if one prefix is in play...
toying with a definition of semite:
anti-: an argument against
heb' marx or some arab tailor...
  but the island dwelling folk...
the ulterior-          prefix beginning with
the atlantic sea: and the myth of atlantis...
lend me your rubber ear...
lend me having invested in...
the precursor...
having from an invested rome...
some wouldn't question...
metaphor celtic england an Afghanistan...
that Rome teased the germanic
people...

but because of the Huns...
and i am somewhat...
borrowing a sorrow with a term
like etymology... vandal?
it has to be so cheap and so easily
stolen...
             for the worth of goth
and spain and later... north africa...
a people and a "place"...
                
         greek seems unchanged...
tickling a sound akin to spanish...
but that... latin is... dead...
and how italian isn't... nowhere near...
the ordeal of concubine and church
monstrosity...
          well...
                 i must be! new h'american!
              and the old...
                        in that... perhaps i could
visit these colonies and never...
      best second attempt expat stature
within a combat of Tokyo...
                        
a car...  a car... a crayon! a crayon!
my horse! my hoarse inability and...
shooting practice with debility angelic!

Starting off with a good day
Driving in an empty highway
Where trees more likely to sway
Listening to music
While it plays