I think my life ahead in more than four or five paces.
I think about the end. The finish line.
It all ends in tragedy.
Car crashes and infedelity.
I write really sad poems when I'm missing you.
I write really angery poems when I'm missing you.
I write absolute non-sense or sometimes just plain-o filth,
But it doesn't change the fact that I miss you.
I unfold memories that I keep hidden underneath the bed sheets because I know
Time will find a way to snuff it out with its gruby hands.
The only place where things don't change is in my bed.
Sure, my bones changed, grew and stretched there, but all my dreams are still the same
Untouched by the same magic my bones endured.
I cry. A lot. But then I realize it's just teenage angst.
Life, death, love, and dreams, their definitions are all bound to change.
Give it 72-days.