I once traced the freckles on your arms at two in the morning. I said,
You are the sky, and apologized
for covering you in black lines. You said
not be sorry. You said
that you liked it.
When you fell on your longboard and lost
half the skin on your left arm,
I could still see the constellations underneath.
Every time I said fuck you for three months, you said
We already played that game, and you
The night you left you never said goodbye,
only looked up at me from that rock in the parking lot
where we’d spent so much time avoiding work
and other people,
and said, oh, fuck you,
and I think maybe that meant I made you feel something
other than the emptiness you try to fill.
So I said that we already played that game
and you hugged me
and as I walked away, you shouted out,
rematch, next year! and all I could think was, oh,
He’s Counting Down From 21, And By The Time He Reaches 15, My Stomach Is In Knots
There is a deck on an empty townhouse in Belle Plaine where you can see Cassiopeia at the beginning of August. In the basement there is a bathroom with a door that sticks and somewhere down the street there is a cemetery awash in the glow of suburban streetlights where I never looked at any of the names on the headstones.
There is a series of bright green post-it notes on a desk in New York City and there is more love in those lines of ballpoint pen than in all the books stacked wall-to-wall around the windows that look over Central Park. There is a four-poster bed with a white comforter and unspoken goodbyes still caught in the sheets.
The campsite in the woods is easy to find. The secrets etched into the wood grain are not written in a language anyone is ever meant to read. The answer is in the smell of the ferns at night.
The bricks of dorm rooms hold souls that grew up and out, but never quite faded from the chipped paint.
In every room you’ve ever stood in, someone fell in love. In every house you’ve never lived in, there is a whisper of everything someone hopes to be.
Home is built with the memories of other people’s hands.