i remember.

i remember Christmas morning 2005

waiting for my parents on the top of the stairs as they ritually searched for the dinosaur video camera to film our reaction

i remember wanting to grow up

i remember my first pair of chuck Taylor's

i remember when I fell in the love with a paint set and a blank canvas

i remember the bonfires

i remember going down to the creek in our red rain boots

i remember memorizing how to spell Mississippi

i remember crossing my fingers on both hands at orientation that he would be in my second grade class

i remember always wanting to grow up

i remember my white first generation iPod shuffle 

i remember my obsession for uncle Jesse on full house

i remember fresh rain and the endless streets of Boston

i remember the boardwalks and the full moons and the blue cotton candy

i remember a world where technology didn't take over

i remember wanting to grow up

i remember when i wasn't grown up

when i didn't come home to college housing options on the desktop of my moms computer

when there was huge gap in between my two from teeth

when i didn't understand what it felt like to be broken

i remember

where your heart is.

where your heart is.

"if you want to know where your heart is, look where your mind goes when it wanders."
but i hate that
because hearts are unreasonable. illogical. hopeful. unrealistic.
they long for the taste their lips allowed.
the way your horizons met.
the way their heart aimlessly beats on the radio.

but that taste was lost months ago.
and your horizons will never fuse again.
and your radio blew out last week.

hearts.
they leave the door unlocked.
they leave the lights on.

love, it's killing me.
damn you, heart. why did my first grade teacher tell me you kept me alive.

one of the most courageous decisions i'll ever make is to finally let go of what's hurting my heart,
but i'm not brave enough to say goodbye, cause i don't want a new hello.

mother nature.

dear mother nature:

thanks for the cheesy cotton candy sunset after i lost my best friend on my drive home. it helped a little. thanks for making emerald green horse pastures that i believed rolled on forever as i grew up  in that little white farmhouse made of your wood. the honeysuckle on featherbed lane, its scent is still with me. thank you. thanks for flurrying on my street corner for my corny first kiss. i'll never forget how the snowflakes covered his eyelashes under the street lamp. thank you for your lightning. we watched it four hours on the porch and it sparked the best heart to heart of all time. thanks for the view of they valley from my room, the city lights that shine in my dark moments. actually, screw "mother nature" thank you God. thank you God for pouring rain on the nights my sleepless nights. i know you're crying with me. THANK YOU GOD.