I pictured the big city scene, right in the middle of everything, pulsating. People rush past each other avoiding anything to do with connection. I pictured us having that connection, the kind that creates grand canyons. People would worry the end was near with how many we'd create.
I thought about the day we'd stop pretending to like horror films, and you'd grab my hand without asking. And the Sunday nights spent feeling the wind crawl into our hands and out our hair while we drove with the windows down. I'd probably have your laugh memorized by then.
I tried writing a poem about state lines. Because I'm pretty sure you've never been in two places at once. And I want you to know what that's like. I wish you could know what it's like to give half your heart to something while ripping it from something else. Maybe then you'd understand why I've always had one foot tied to the ground.
I wrote about the hundreds of glow in the dark stars I have on my walls and ceiling and how they always fade away the longer I wish. I'm sorry for wishing. I realize now most of those have been wrongfully used.
I tried to write a poem about paint, and how it looks the most beautiful wet. Just like your heart.
So wipe the tears and save it for later. There's a drought coming soon. And all the daydreams in the world wont fill the cracks that are coming.
I wanted to write a poem about you but nothing came out right, no matter the days spent in the city. I wanted to write a poem about you but the drought came too early. What would have happened if we never made those grand canyons? Would people notice when they drove over their graves? Would they slam on the breaks and hold their chests, wondering what happened?
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