If bricks were minutes you'd have far too many of mine already,

and I'd be stealing yours whenever you turn away.

someone else's gas money

burger chains you've never tried

pavement singed bare feet

rumours I wouldn't correct

anything but rest

tents and high ceilings

raspberry jam

stance socks

balloons with helium

the temper trap

newly waxed skis

praying because you're happy

sock tan lines

straight faces

back two rows of the bus

orange juice

fridays

photos you don't remember taking

pleated skirts

people who you don't remember becoming friends with, you just are

not everybody winning a medal

postcards

red mango

holding hands

jeeps

new cities

8th grade journal entries about boys

9th grade journal entries about boys

days without "having to"

twitter

weathered playbills

laser tag

jack johnson

having the upper hand

Eyes heavy

Words heavy

And we don't know what to do with them.

Words wander

Hands wander

Thoughts wander

And we don't know where to go with them.

Baby don't let them steal your breath. Don't loosen your grip on your humanity. I know and he knows it's the one thing with which we do what we wish.

We are what we want and we are real.

We say what we want and we steal.

We see what we want and we fall.

And I didn't believe them when they said your choices were darker than the shadows you walk in. 

And I didn't see the invitation in the dim corners and the empty houses until he flipped that switch.

And I didn't realize that souls can step out for a moment, leaving only human.

And it's just as bitter as it sounds.

So maybe being human isn't the goal.

Maybe human is what we are when we give up and I'm sorry that's not more poetic but I don't know how else to say this and

You danced through my kitchen today and I realized just how many of you have let me breathe into your chest in the doorframe.

Because hearts get worn but my hands aren't heavy now. Not yet. This isn't good for me quite yet. 

We aren't supposed to have to learn goodbyes.

Not yet.

I just forgot about them.

Maybe I realized that watercolors look more elegant and colored pencils more sophisticated and nobody ever takes crayons seriously anyways and maybe I used to believe that being taken seriously was worth more than my crayons.

But this is a true story about how I danced with you last night and all I wanted was for nobody to take me seriously.

I'm not asking you to let me be a child, I would just like to base my decisions off of whims rather than logic now please.

But Paris is on the list, baby.

I want her streets and her rain to swallow my shoes.

I want her autumn to sting my lips and her language to infiltrate my dreams like a thousand marching men flood a valley.

And we're all very much aware that August just took her last breath, so maybe next summer. But I'll keep wanting.

Because I want Paris.