My head holds stories of everyone I’ve ever known.
Of a night through dark terrain, hoping you would hold my hand, listening to you explain all the ways she makes you feel, and driving home with a dulling sense of specialness and the keenest sense of a future.
Of Sunday mornings, knees pressed against my chest, gossiping about the night before while chomping on granola and almond milk with Nickelodeon in the background.
Of days driving down the coast, windows down and a daisy in my hair. Preparing ourselves for a night of huddled warmth while we listen to the sounds of our childhood amongst towering, grandfather redwoods.
Of nights in strange neighborhoods and hands tucked into pockets, walking side by side, a commentator on the selfless and unknown, on ringlets and peacock feathers, on floating hearts.
Of moments shared which I’ve never told a soul,
which I hold closer than anything,
which my heart hangs heavy from.
And one day I’ll find you. In the morning breeze, seated to my left at a coffee shop, with you feet propped up on the table. I won’t mind it, you won’t remember.
And one day I’ll find you. Though I’m not sure I’ll care.
And one day I’ll find you. Kneeling across from me on a bathroom floor, with tears running down my face from another broken heart gifted by another broken boy.
And one day I’ll find you. Watching as you spill your essence onto a crowd of innocent by-standers, either by accident or otherwise, I’ll see you and smile and you’ll smile back.
And one day I’ll find you. And my stories won’t seem like I made them up.
